The Migration of Shadows

The sun leans heavy against the brick, spilling long, indigo fingers across the alley. They reach for the discarded hinges of the day, feeling for the pulse of what was left behind.

Every afternoon is a slow unravelling, a migration of shapes that have no weight. The oak tree stretches its dark geometry, mapping the lawn in a language of cool ink.

We are clock-watchers in this sliding light, measuring our lives by the distance to the wall. The darkness does not fall; it merely arrives, reclaiming the corners we thought we owned.

There is a music in the lengthening dusk, a low vibration of things returning to the earth. The shadows fold their wings against the foundation, waiting for the moon to redraw the map.