the shadows are not too sure of themselves,

like calligraphy without language,

like an artist finger painting in black –

trees grew up together,

their shadows grew into each other,

casting cool darkness over tar.


the wind plays with the shadows,

sifting through leaves with its poetic fingers

so that dark and light dance on the ground,

flicker, slide, quiver, sway, weave,


they play a butterfly’s game of beauty,

mirroring the sun’s own choreography with the clouds


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