One section of the sidewalk has a huge purple stain and a popsicle stick; the temperature is one hundred eight degrees.
A crow struts over the short grass like a member of the Gestapo on parade. He stops from time to time to look around with disapproval at the flat world he was given.
Looking at the Catalinas in the distance, sunlight glistening off concertina wire strikes my eye, reminding me that this is the only view I will ever have.
