From the torn road (near the train tracks)

Three trees on the edge of the playground,

all from the same root system,

swayed to whisper to the lone bicycle wheel

in the yard over the fence.

“The gnomes are awake at the Stevenson’s,”

the trees said in leafy unison.

“Oooooo,” sang the wind through the wheel.

They stood watch over cracked cobbles

and leaky hoses.

There was nothing but shadows

to mark time, which was everything.