There is a lonesome wildflower growing tall between the cracks in the asphalt on this road leading into the city. Its white blossoms contrast angelically against the black and white backdrop of the abandoned cross-section of morning. The sun has yet to rise, but its peekaboo light emanates gently--and just enough--above the horizon to bring the flower to attention. The wind comes and goes, and it sounds like a freight train attached to a boomerang. The sound of nature's intent interrupts the weed's solitude, and its beauty bends over and into itself as though covering its ears.
And as I make my left turn in acceptance of Thursday, I can't help but wonder if the wildflower will survive until I get home.