Drift Poem

The first set of feet to walk past me are slow and precise. They are almost lost in the air altogether. A motorcycle slowly, yet demandingly, roars into focus, then fades back into oblivion. The dog’s paws scratch at the ground like an anxious sandpaper. Birds call to one another in the distance. Now the dog walker and friend walks past me. The words said to one another are feint and almost meaningless. The last set of feet are fast and obnoxious, calling attention to them.