By Carl Atiya Swanson
The lilacs are already in bloom here
so I couldn't hear then opening.
But the chatter of children expands –
soft foot falls, flip flops flapping.
A bird chirp and a chitter, maybe
a dry leaf on the asphalt.
The wind luxuriating in the leaves,
in the branches, in my hair.
Somewhere a river, somewhere
a drill, a saw, a hammer.
Cars behind me,