The Little Boy

The little boy runs. From what I can't tell or make out what it is he afraid of. Yet I ask is he afraid or is he in a hurry? And as I walk on the other side of the road; it's concrete smooth under my boots. I ask who is this little boy with fair hair? He is nobody. Just a little boy wearing pale blue jeans. That's all at least in my case. I don't know him, I don't know his past, his future or his present. I just know him as the little boy with fair hair and blue jeans. And as I walk over the other side, he begins to run. So he is afraid; of me? Don't be daft I laugh. He turns and begins running. Do I scare him? I feel a power I shouldn't feel, I feel in control. And he now walks again, he's calling someone on his phone. He's at his destination; running up the tiny side road. He screams, happy to see his friends; roars with laughter. I continue walking, a passer by to something so small. A tiny blip within nothing, nothing historic. Nothing. Just life. I'm a stranger, an observer. That is all.