Next to the bus

Orange plastic lies scattered across the pavement, litter the colour of fruit but without the decay, at least for the next thousand years.

This remains from the earlier, and the present, time gifted in play to the children as they unwrap hope, a goodwill gesture for the start of the new year.

No-one stops me when I walk, wind in my face, leaves blown from invisible trees in the concrete street.

Seasons stack, waiting to pass, but for the moment autumn creeps in.

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