End of the Alley, Eight in the Morning
A silver mailbox stretches long in the sunlight. No one comes down this alley, and yet I slow my steps once in front of that shadow. The alley at eight in the morning was so quiet. In that quiet, only the mailbox's shadow kept brushing past the tips of my feet.
I had lived without giving mailboxes a thought, yet once, coming home from work, a single flyer at the door felt welcome. This morning, too, there was nothing in front of my door.