Saturday mornings are different.Garage sales in the front of many houses.
No calls or jingles announcing service trucks.
No clanking of rebar on the back of delivery trucks.
Small clusters of neighbors.
Soft voices.
Chattering children holding hands with parents.
Music drifting from open windows.
Women returning with full bolsas from the mercado.
A different rhythm in the street.
The end of the week song.
Shhh....Listen!
It's nice, isn't it.
7 comments:
Beautiful poem. I once lived in Guadalajara, Mexico. I thought it was a beautiful place.
You're so right. Beautifully put.
You are a poetiza Billie. Muy bonito poema.
It does sound very nice. I can almost hear what is going on over there. Its like a different world, where you are at.Very peaceful. The only sounds I get over here are cars going by, someone tooting, the neighbor's getting drunk, singing, and then fighting with each other.Well thats part of life. It is Saturday over here too. The evening has arrived and it is quieting down.:) Take care.
prose
poem
put
pretty
I'm not a poet
and I know it.
But thanks to all of you for letting me 'play' and your kind remarks.
Here in the NE, we are listening to the rhythm of the rain...uh, Kyle that is.
P'taker
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