Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood

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Late afternoon shadows lay like hands
over the pebbled-gray driveways.
Black crows sit against the jagged edges of sky and peeling white bark.
The streets intersect like lovers.
Watching my small boy, his hand a flapping flag in the wind,
slows and stops my clacking keys and glowing screen.
I see the street in front of me,
I feel the sun and shadows creep along the avenue.
I hear the blue garbage truck pass.
A saw drones next door.
Sparrows congregate on the phone lines,
crisscrossing the clouds, jailing them in the atmosphere.
Bicyclists churn up the hill, trailing boards behind,
diamonds on wheels, saltwater dripping a trail back to the beach.
Light glints from the ocean's surface;
mist climbs the horizon.
The street's black tar softens in the sun.

Carrie Goulding teaches English at Irvine Valley College and is a fellow of the University of California, Irvine, Writing Project. She lives in San Clemente, California, with her husband and two-year-old son. This is her first published poem.

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