Three men in baseball caps on Sunday’s oval: this sublime morning (like Vivaldi’s violins) elongates their shadow legs while the leashes of the three small dogs tangle calves in random wind until grown men must hop and wobble. Spring’s tickling breeze, its infinite busy fingers, plucks browned blossoms and drops them butterfly flitting to ground or to land on cap brims; perched there like quivering moths – such weightless waiting. The men turn as one, dog leads aligned; amble through the petaled drift toward a cafe, pitched with chairs and round tables with glass tops; their dislocated shadows shimmery green. The dogs begin another slower tying.
I can’t explain it briefly. Click on the above blue text and check it out. 🙂