Sometimes There's Nothing

Nothing but breeze churning up a fuss. A beaten Buick, squinted, in the citrusy sun. Hum and drum go lawn mowers. Nothing but red tin roofs looking askance at your gaze. Green leaves, aloof, in a by-gone gust. Scuttle of traffic in the habit of ants. And, perhaps, when you come down from your haste you’ll see, sometimes there’s nothing. Nothing at all.