PRAMB'LING AT NOON

I watch the shadows slide crisscross
the gravel, slices of wheel
measuring pavement.

The sun plays tricks - a child rips
the sidewalk, past me on a skateboard.

In the ditch beside the road
fallen blackberries, sweet and wasp-covered
this hot August day a dead bird
I cannot identify but must:
yellow-tipped head marking the pituitary,
small as a chickadee but not one.

Alarmed
I look to the baby, so fragile before me
with blue and purple veins
marking the dimensions of her skull.
She is wrapped
in a lacey white blanket -in a flash
she is old in a wheelchair, shawl draped
about her thinning hair,
her crumpled shoulders.

The sun plays tricks, I say...

A construction crew ahead:
A girl flags me on, stopping
to peep at the baby: "A girl, eh?" she says
eager to be friendly. She has one twelve-weeks old at home. Does she choose to
work among those men in the dirt?
Someone curses her for slacking off

Outside Surrey market
an old man tips his hat
walking stick extended into the grainy
sidewalk,
The creases of his face sizzle
into a smile. I think of
torn paper, ancient letters
disintegrating in the folds, suddenly
burning up.

The sun plays tricks when mirrors cross
spark the mind

Turning the pram
in a wide arc through the gravel, I go.

Again
the boy on the skateboard rasps the
sidewalk
past me. He looks back briefly to check
my expression. This time I remember
to say "Hello".

Gillian Harding-Russell
Surrey, B. C