It always surprises me just a bit when I am standing with someone looking out a Window, and though the scenery is the same, we see it differently. Their descriptive words are factual and precise while mine are filled with possibilities. That is what gives a writer the ability to write. He/she looks at the world through the eyes, the ears, and the heart and soul. Then describes it in such a way that the reader can feel as though they were there. Everything is a story and strangers are friends.

In the misty morning air
The click clopping of shoes
Upon wet cement
Sets my mind
into a musical cadence.
Each drop of rain
Lands in perfect rythym,
Every swoosh of a tire
Lends a crescendo.
A song heard
Time and again.
Born of the monotony
Of one day into the next,
Of one foot in front of the other
Of stories told and retold.
In the shabbiness of the
Morning air
The sun tries
to blink through the clouds
So it can burn through
The frozen humanity
That no longer
Gives a scrap of bread
To a stranger.
I watch as silhouettes
Dance between rain drops
Then scurry into shelter.
The click clopping of shoes
has faded into
A stark and silent
Breath of time.



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