Sidewalk. Janet St. John. 2017
I didn’t know what the cracks represented, nor the lines diagonally dividing this space from that, one step from another. Leaves had fallen, been blown, trodden, cracked, flaked, crushed to the scent of burnt toast and the better side of decay. Some light accidently reflected in my lens. My eyes. My phone. My way of seeing the world. The black and white of it. The gray. Always so much gray. That place to inhabit. The sun shone, filigree through remaining leaves, brought the contrast I was seeking, balance of light and dark. Of living and dying away. I noticed the sound, smell, sight, the dirt and food scraps and debris and detritus clinging to the indentations, cracks, crevices. The pockets where things can hide or remain in place or be protected. Until a broom or wind or rain appear. Until a bird or squirrel finds something in them worth savoring. Until they begin to break down, disappear, and go wherever we living things do.
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