We sit at a table; the wood is hard on us. A profile from the province, a statue with scars, stands solid and lurks at us from under the veiled sun, a sliver of shadow stretching away from it. We smile and prefer comfort. At times, we step up and read a few lines from the paper. We flee and do not look where the shadows dig their holes. We fly with the wind, let the darkness and the twilight follow us when we don’t breathe and think of our friends. The shadows crawl on the ground where five hundred white boats once crossed the grass until they reached the bottom of the hill. This afternoon we’ll be good as we hear the motors of the cars hovering on the new bridge where they obstructed the sky.
We’ll stay by the porcupines and the coyotes, not far from their hiding in the labyrinth in the park. The colour green invades our eyes; we don’t blink, things are fine. Worms crop out of tiny crevices under our feet.
The sunshine spread slowly over our table. Our hands creep under the leaves of our tshirts. In a few days will start the yellow days when we can stare and not get hurt.