The common smelled nice this evening, and there was the
sound of an old carrion crow throatily calling in the gathering dusk. The last busker gone from the noiseless
bandstand, as well as two lovers arm in hand, and the sky was high,
cadet-grey and tangerine, new leaves on early summer trees, phosphorescent
green: A natural sense of calm falling gently as a blanket, only the fat Jets
overhead occasionally barraging the silence with yawning roars. Later, from my balcony door, rare peace of
mind, the stillness allowing thoughts too big to share with someone else space
to unwind, years of pent up tension paroled for a time into quiet nothingness,
weightless and free, save the idle scratchings, cross-hatchings of pen on
paper, momentarily forgetting the future, leaving the rubble of the past to
be searched through another day.
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