The air races
Gathering whispers and daydreams.
We are alone. Isolated. Together.
Half an hour of freedom
To exercise
Means that they cross
The street
To avoid us.
The air races
Blowing my hair upwards.
Three layers seemed like a lot in the sun,
But not enough in the shade.
The daffodils topple over.
They are unwatched this year.
Their golden crowns are beginning to fall,
As we await the end of...
