The Second Shard

Windows stay closed as a cold winter morning blows through the summer afternoon. The empty boulevards hiss with loneliness, the old white and yellow paint separating driving lanes growing paler with each breath. Shards of glass wiggle in piles here and there, and you can see wonderful human drawings painted and broken into their fabric. One piece holds an almost lifelike green eye; it even blinks from time to time. Another piece holds a breathing mouth, a third one is a finger pointing forever in a single direction, then twitching in a spasm of pointlessness. The afternoon gets colder, and as a crow flies over to summarize the leftovers of pretty much everything, it cows a single time, then breaks apart into a new glass puzzle, falls fifty meters down towards the asphalt, and piles up with the rest of them. A tiny glass kitty tongue tries to lick the crow’s feathers but it can’t reach that far, so it gives up eventually.