An October Cherita

She watches her steps, flagstones worn and layered by generations of shoes like hers.

Behind the houses, where neighbors share gardens and stone-built burners, and kids burn their buttons on old metal slides — there is something —
it feels safe, but shadows stretch long—too quiet if she stays too long.

Her block is wide, familiar—elm trees, ivy on fences, dogs barking.
But then she stops from a shaking that makes her heart race.
Looking up, she knows these boys from school, but here, on her block, their skin makes them not belong and she freezes eyes wide.