a long line of cars wait to cross while sparrows flirt about on the barbed wire

ice cracks as we walk; i keep my hands in my coat cause i lost my gloves

fireworks half-heartedly going off – neither them nor us can change who we are

outside the twentieth story window a piece of paper fluttered by

wind carries voices, each year people march for change and the same cops watch

another batch of kittens outside oblivious to my cat glaring

the rain brought a mud smell, a few meter-hours of europe in the west

too late for jay songs, the ambulance is fading but the dogs still howl

a spider sleeps next to my screen unaware twitter’s scrolling by

the animals lie on tiles hiding from the heat, outside the grass dries

cold spring breeze pushes leaves and barely strains oak branches, suspended girl swings

the pandemic stopped the cars but not the small dogs that need their daily walks

a human caterpillar marching downtown, it’s too hot to not hide in shade

all the colors are orange, the smoke has even set the sun on fire

it will be hot soon, i’m cleaning the garage avoiding a dead roach

a septal tear drop in september wind, squirrels ignore us as they work

the next door condo construction is stuck again, few more sunsets yet

no cars on the road, the stray cats keep strolling by on the fence outside

gulls hover in fog, unbroken into the sky the ocean continues

each year the summer runs longer; i feel guilty for owning jackets