The old man in shining black, with the immense black umbrella,
walked down the street like the younger brother of the shadow of
death. Each house, as he passed, pulled down its shades, and each
tree, as he passed, withdrew its buds.
Then on the corner as the rain stopped, he stopped and walked
back up the street, the shadow of death disappearing as he closed
his overpowering umbrella. The buds popped out, the windows
opened as one bird sang and one child shouted, and all that was
left was the black skeleton of the brother of the shadow of
death to laugh at and yes, to stone.
Be careful, this is April. It might rain again and the shadow
and its slapstick brother might move up and down the spring
bursting, bud-ladened, totally confused street all afternoon singing,
Danger, Laughter, Danger, Laughter.
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