Shadows are collective things. A product of the tilt of the earth, time of day, and a clear weather forecast. Conspiracy to create the bold, graceful shadow of a leafless tree on my wooden fence at 9:38 AM.
Sinewy arms held far out into space, beyond a balance point. The imprint, sharp and inky, caught my attention.
Shadows are beautiful. They give mute testimony to what we do not notice. Registering eclipse, obstruction, secondhand news, an echo pinging a presence.
Shadows are always underway. Moving with conditions, treading lightly, striking hard at our more brilliantly lit surfaces.
I am grateful for shadows — they reveal what I cannot or will not admit, what I believe impossible.
Years ago, on an old playground, I ran alongside a creaking, once yellow metal carousel, jumping aboard when it picked up speed. Transfixed by the moving lines and my own waving shadow – a parallel world more thoughtful than my own.
9:54 AM. The shadow is dissipated, the tree indistinct, its revealing twin faded. Present just long enough, and gone.
Shadows do not mean to be sharp, it is bright light that makes them so.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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