Today the light forgot to dance upon the rusty water. The dust forgot to sparkle in the sun. Every step was straight onto another rough patch, every turn clotted with obstacles and ill intent. Truth be told you hardly noticed. Truth be told it is an adaptive advantage to always expect the worst. Big trouble didn't stick its nose in, not even for moment. But you were ready, always ready, for the wrong end of it to aim its way into you.
It would have been better raining. It would have been better if it was all mud and promise, the handiwork of today's crow rather than tomorrow's dove. Olive branches are better tendered once all the fight has left you. Much more impressive after its been too long out to sea. Instead it was all cracked clay and asphalt, gutter water and oblivious cement. Instead it was ill winds and bad tidings, sorry conspiracy and a nation of strays. A kingfisher took to the sky as if in conquest, lost sailing in circles above the trash-ridden ditch. You would take wing if you could, to leave this all behind you.
Now the dogs growl and tussle, battling over a knotted rope. Children squall from the schoolyard, caught up in the thrill of bouncing balls and clinking chains. Someone hammers away in clipped succession, building some structure in a neighbor's yard. Traffic scuttles passed as if there were a fire that needed fighting. Pedestrians argue like there is a story to be told. Not one venture, no fresh advantage. Another day of a life that won’t fit you. Another day lost in the same old way.