by Dave Rowley
Pablo stands below the birches in the park as joggers pass by. The outstretched limbs of the trees, and the outstretched twigs on the ends of the limbs, form a ceiling of veins across the darkening sky. Pablo shakes a succession of black doves from each sleeve, the shadow birds rustle upwards as bike riders, power walkers, and evening strollers quicken their pace and hurry home. He bows before leaving. The smell of cooking dinners shuffle the leaves, children drain from the streets, the thump of bird-wings pulse through the sky. From not far away at all, one dog answers the bark of another.
Dave Rowley is originally from Sydney, Australia. He now lives in Seattle with his wife Tina and their son Finn. He doodles, writes poems, and blogs.