Water rippled over moss covered stones, lending life to trailing fronds. Water under the bridge, David thought. Water that washes and cleans, while the July moon hung above the tree tops, gazing down on him.
But stones were just the gutter beside the road. Fronds were newspaper scraps with their messages faded and forlorn. And the treetops were a line cut low, unable to hide the white-orbed face that peered between black-walled apartment blocks.
He accosted her in the stairwell of her apartment. “Emily?” She turned and smiled.
Even the city knows life and the trailing fronds of awakening love.


Comments: 22
Thanks for posting to my group, Anythingwriting
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painter’s block
Thank you for posting to The Surreal Circus.