My mind walked the empty sidewalks of town while I and all others remained moored on narrow bleachers hearing speakers, awards, names, degrees. The sycamore on the corner did not hear the sounds and gave no applause. Four pileated woodpeckers, too young for full tail feathers, skimmed over the stage and past the tops of our heads, stroking hard, beaks flowing before their oil-slick heads; single-file, moving east into the painless dawn. Don’t most grand events release doves, I thought.
The sycamore asked
why we strive never reaching
the effortless sun
© Jilly’s 2016
dVerse Haibun Monday 'Walking' <Not happy with the title - taking suggestions!>