Sound Waves: MOVIN! by Takacha
Park bench
The crack etches of mahogany paint, applied only a few years back, were its only symbols of its integrity for holding a little longer for a century or so. The worksman knew this piece of curvish iron furniture had seen more than a box of fruit ever did. It even had the grandeu view of City Hall, just a few meters away between the lawn-mow friendly patch of snow.
As he observed the ancient artifact's many scars and markings (mainly a permanent heart with teenage love engraved and dents that managed to mar their way through the cold surface), the worker knew it had done its job quite to perfection.
The melancholic cooing of the flock of ruffled pigeons nearby and the scatterbrained chatter of a salad mix of children in their winter clothes was a nostalgic thing to see in this time of year. For one that has only depended on his leather case and silver watch for a mere twenty years, the worksman took in a whiff of the distant dead maple trees, the crushing steps his fancy shoes made in the pure, virgin snow, the foggy precipitation sending warning signals up his erect spine of another permanent day indoors.
The worksman's squinty eyes scanned the park with only the fading feeling of a longer summer, warming his conscious little by little from the ironcast cold.
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