plaza afternoon

between the hours

The plaza holds its breath. A wind gathers, but only enough to lift the corners of yesterday’s paper. I walk the edge— stone to shadow, shadow to stone— smiling the smile I made a couple of hours ago, still warm in its pocket. Visitors pose for a photograph they will put off for another hour, or another day. The fountain repeats itself, water folding into water, circles without departure. Somewhere, a sundial leans into the wrong hour, its bronze hand always too late. The yawn arrives without warning, a soft collapse of the face, a brief surrender to the weight of the afternoon. And yet, in the far corner, a child’s shout breaks the air— a spark that rises, then falls back into the slow turning of the plaza’s breath. .