Sometimes she sits on the gilded edge of the time before and the space after, watching people scurry below.
Ants unaware of their instinctual march, if they were to rip their eyes from the path would they see me?
Unaware of his mother’s harried calls a boy lets his toy train crash to the wooden floors. The glowing specter upon the golden spiral lights, reflecting and refracting shimmering beams, flickers then vanishes.
“Mommy did you see that?”
He points, though he’s suddenly unsure of the space where the dancing rays of gold once were.
His mother hurriedly leads him away.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff Fields for wrangling Friday Fictioneers
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