Miles

A ball of yearn, mustard yellow, tumbles down the cold iron stairs in a busy Melbourne alley. The sparrows toy with the loose strand, trailing after the mustard ball as it topples down, down, down the stairs onto the cobbled alley floor, amongst clicking heels and hurried strides. It has a long way to go. A long trail to create. Miles of yarn, yet to be threaded throughout the world, still tightly wound in a soft ball of mustard.

***

Miles sat hunched over the lunch bar, picking at the wilted salad in front of him. He pushed his matted hair out of his eyes as he studied a host of sparrows fussing about down the alley. It's the tail end of the lunchtime rush, but Miles is no rush to be anywhere.

Author's Note

A current work in progress, I am open to any and all criticism.