There's a slight breeze blowing. Old Glory is waving from a front porch. It should be called the stars and strips because it is torn to shreds that waver and writhe. We have the right to fly the flag, burn it, wear it, whatever, but to display it like this is sloppy and lazy. Then again, maybe it's some sort of political statement.
I'm listening to scanner radio on my phone. Voices from Oklahoma are coming across the ether. The news is tragic and heartbreaking, and I have to ask, "Where is God in all this?" The tornadoes carried his wrath, but what's he angry about? Why kill innocents? He would have done better to obliterate Wall Street or descend on Washington D.C.
A few areas of Second Street still have old brick sidewalks, the bricks having been worn down by decades of foot traffic. If only we could extract their history. (What would it tell us?) They're a connection to the past. Let's hope they're never paved over.
The stench from the sewer plant is enough to make you retch. It hangs low in the air because of the humidity, as the breeze nudges it gently up towards the center of town.
A car with the windows down rides past blasting out rap. On the recording is a man ranting about something. He sounds angry and is talking really fast. Have you ever heard a tender love song done in rap? I doubt it's possible to do so.
