A power pole shadow streaks the sidewalk, until the curb jags it like lightning, and pavement bends it like a sickle— portentous, foreshadowing. Obedient to rules, accurate in every respect, shadows move under cars, lurk in alleys, darken moon, darken night— ominous, definitive, satisfying interpretative minds with terrible creativity. And truth fades in another light, while trust is a bolt, holding cross arm to pole.