The sound of your feet on a gravel walk,
the cracking of trees as the wind rolls through them,
cars moving in the distance, hushing the roads to sleep.
Your own wonderful heart beating deep within your chest,
the quiet tick of time saying now,
be right now.
May our way back to being human be just around the next bend,
down the tangled path that is lined with scrub oak and moths,
orange and feathered at the tail, flying low enough
to be crushed by passing feet. They were here with the birds
long before we were, watching the day turn into night,
the light between the trees fading to blue then lavender,
creeping silently between the black branches
one dark shadow at a time.
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