Street

jill ebrahimi

I stood on the street, watching tiny cracks in the window glass spread out like fingers. I stood on the street, watching this web etch itself.

I stood on the street, rooted to that one spot of ground. I could hear the wind whisper secrets in an unfamiliar language. I strained to hear, as though that would somehow enable me to understand these strange, esoteric sounds.

I stood on the street, rooted to that one spot of ground. The distant bleating of a car’s horn grew louder, closer and more desperate.

I stood on the street, rooted to that one spot of ground. Those tiny, jagged glass fingers seemed to beckon me forth.

I stood on the street, immovable. A raven flew past me, circling me before landing on my left shoulder. “It is time,” she whispered.

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