Monday, 4 August 2008

Practising

Tyre track teeth cut notches into windows of sky. I gasp at the new angular buildings that fill more of this space week by week, shudder at the thought of so many homes and offices and hotels that seem so unsuited to those who might like the quirky in life. Shoe box stacks reach up and up, just like in the dusty high shelved back room of a store.

Then I see a ball fly up high, hear a child counting and clapping beneath it's fall. Barefoot with unbrushed blond curls, he is working hard on learning to catch on a black diamond of space between trucks parked slanting on the corner outside the artist's studios. He misses each time and the heavy ball splats down.

When I walk back this way from the bank an hour later, he's catching every throw.