Just Practicing

My shoes are the strong silent type in that they rarely throw fits about the weather as flip-flops do nor demand tit-for-tat consideration when worn together with socks. It should come as little surprise then that they’re white and grey, underemployed running shoes, meaning long strolls at sunrise are just what they sound like: footsteps devoid the prerequisite urgency to shift directions as deemed necessary by either myself or my feet when adrift through trance-like stables of the butterfly where train engineers mimic the station of glacier-laced shoe-string transformation.