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.