I found them in the street

on hands and knees

among strewn colored chalk.

Children chattering on

about keeping the shadows

filled in with the scrapings.

The spindled silhouettes

of barren trees crawled

slowly over the asphalt

and the artists tried to stay

within the lines.

Thin branches grew

in density and color

as the sun moved

across the day.

The half-light

of sinking yellow

stretched the chalk

down the road

and they held stubs

of pastel and primary

between finger and thumb.

Now the shadow of night

is like a canvas.

The street light flickers on

and there is no evidence

of asphalt or the cracks

of time tucked in it.

They sat on the curb

powdered like doughnuts

and slouched in satisfaction.

They promised to

color the shadows forever.