In the late afternoon on Chestnut Street, the sun cleaves shadows on its westward slide to the horizon. The world reorganizes itself in shifting light and sudden contrasts. 

Above a storefront, a single carved antelope gallops in a world of concrete and steel and steam. A survivor-symbol of some forgotten past, it chases its shadow east, away from the setting sun.

I find no obvious clues as to its meaning—nothing nearby springs to mind, and the storefront below seems to be unrelated. 

Perhaps it is the last of a herd: the strongest, and by default, the weakest. It is a lone runner, in a breathless escape to freedom and survival. It is muscle and stone, shadow and sun, life and death.

But it’s not dead, not lost, not yet.

I love these little remnants in the gloaming. And I must remember to keep my eyes open, my chin up.

-gj