Shadow poem by Mary E. Watson

Morning darkness, headlights, street lamps.
The shadow scuttles along beside the man,
Leaping off houses and behind dark
Like a dog walking his master.

High then low as the terrain changes,
Melding with the flat or rough and
Then…quickly, disappears when
The man steps from walk to street.

Just a shadow born of form and light.
Having no life of its own but living
Off the substance of other objects and,
Dying when exposed to direct light of street


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