The caterpillars are out now, the season boasting its fickle weather. I know because the dead and dying float in chlorine water, having been either too stupid or too lost in our concrete jungle to avoid falling off the edge. The dog ignores them and frolics amongst their pathetic graves, conscious only of the power in her paddling paws.
The flowers burst into being on the trees, and every breath induces a sneeze. The pollen pods are crushed against the asphalt and no car can retain its color beneath the yellow stain. But the trees look so pretty. The only solution is to stare towards the sky rather than contemplating the ground.
Soffe shorts are everywhere in public, girls prematurely celebrating summer. It matters not that tomorrow the blooms may freeze off the leaves and that the caterpillars who've managed to avoid the swimming pools may die of the cold. All it takes is that fickle weather to want towards winter once again.
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