Write a four line poem about: the middle of the night.
Sorry this is so late getting updated. Guests arrived shortly before midnight and then yadda yadda yadda.
Things go bump,
Hearts may pause,
Though it's all
With... out... cause...?
Write four lines of prose about: belonging.
It's going to be a bit of a different market than usual tomorrow. Since we only managed to scrounge five pints of blackberries out of our bushes, and because we're pretty much past the soft fruit time of the year, there was a whole lot of space to be filled in our cooler.
So I decided, for the first time in more than two years, to bring some carrots to the market. Last year we just didn't have enough growing on top of what the boxes and restaurant were taking and up until this point this year we just haven't had the space, both in the cooler and on the truck.
Kind of looking forward to seeing how well they sell.
Other than that, for the September long weekend market I'll be bringing lots of corn, way too many tomatoes, a big load of Gala apples, onions, leeks, potatoes, garlic, and... I'm forgetting something. I have no idea what it is at the moment.
Whatever. Should be a good one, as the forecast is sounding pretty ideal.
The air is different here, I can feel the subtleties in the scents as they enter my nostrils and the freshness as it fills my lungs. I would know this place if I were blindfolded and my ears deafened. It is like no other place on this planet.
This is not just my home... it is where I belong.
Write about: misdirection.
Started weeding our badly neglected potatoes this morning. How rough is it? Well, I decided to just do the paths between every other row because I just need access to the plants from one side, not both.
And also because it would take until December to do all the rows.
I've been mucking around with my iPhone, trying to figure out how to take decent pictures with it. Here's one I took this morning of freshly picked Gala apples:
I took a great one of Max in the grocery store the other day, but it's really blurry. I shall have to try to capture that one again, as his expression was... well, you'll see. Hopefully.
A languid, sultry wave of an arm, the wriggling of glittering fingers, an unexpected laugh. She knows all the tricks and does not hesitate to use them.
She does not need long sleeves to hide her secrets, no wigs or disguises to conceal her identity. Brazen, some might call it. She prefers confident.
It is a dangerous game. The penalties for losing are dire and not for the weak of heart. But she has never suffered from a frail disposition, nor does she concern herself with the possibility of capture. Perhaps that is the key to her success.
One of them, at least.
Write about: the caretaker.
Harvested a bunch of tomatoes for the bakery (cherry) and restaurant (heirloom) this morning, along with zucchini, swiss chard, eggplant, jalapenos, and... a disappointing amount of blackberries and raspberries. Looks like we're coming to the end of berry season.
Which is okay, really, considering how long it takes to pick them.
His mother works too much,
His father not enough;
For such a little guy,
Life can be pretty rough.
The neighbours shrug and frown,
Teachers keep their distance,
Though privately they talk
Much of his persistence.
He ignores each of them,
His life speaks for itself;
For when push comes to shove
He takes care of himself.
Write two haiku about: storms.
Today our box customers found leeks and eggplant in their boxes for the first time this season. There were definitely some pleased reactions to the leeks, which I always have trouble understanding. Just never been a particularly big fan of those guys.
Kat is still working her way back to full strength but at least there are signs of progress. Max, thank goodness, is still his happy, bouncy self and showing no signs of catching whatever his mama had.
Quick as a cheetah
and twice as terrifying;
the storm has arrived.
* * *
Raindrops on windows,
lightning flashing in the sky;
time for a good book.
Write something that has to do with: the horizon.
Feeling quite tired, so I'm just going to get to it.
Professor Kairos Damus stood on the balcony attached to his hotel room, a pocket watch dangling from his right hand as he contemplated the western horizon. Festive noises floated up to him from the pool deck far below as other guests reveled in the afternoon sunshine. The professor would not be joining them, for that was not his purpose there. In fact his bags remained packed in the bedroom behind him, despite his having arrived the previous day.
He hadn't expected to observe anything until that afternoon, but he'd been concerned his calculations had been flawed and had therefore caused his instruments to be less than perfectly accurate. Had that been the case he wanted to know exactly how far off their prediction had been, which would allow for corrective tinkering.
But so far everything was going to their schedule. Professor Damus was struggling to contain his excitement as he continued his watch, first counting down the hours and then minutes.
That was not his real name, of course.
He was experimenting with aliases at each of his destinations, trying to find one that he would go public with once his work had been honed to perfection. His true identity must remain secret, for some would surely confuse prediction with causation.
People could be such fools when advanced science was involved.
As minutes descended into seconds he raised the watch to eye level. He could not stop himself from counting down the final moments out loud.
"Five, four, three, two, one... there she is."
With that he returned to his room, collected his bags, and took the elevator down to the parking lot beneath the building. One accurate prediction was not enough to satisfy his requirements, and the next tornado was scheduled to touchdown in less than two days on the other side of the country.
Write about: recovery.
Today's theme was resting. For me, it was due to yesterday being market day and never getting enough sleep on Friday nights. For Kat, it was thanks to her being up half the night on Friday throwing up and then spending most of Saturday in bed recovering.
She's doing better today but she's still not 100% back from... whatever it was that hit her so hard. We're both very glad that her parents have been available to watch Max so that we can get some much needed sleep.
The easternmost wing of the hospital's fifth floor was eerily quiet as midnight approached. No machines sent beeps drifting through the hallways, there were no staff or patients up and about to produce footfalls.
It almost seemed abandoned, but it was not. At least, not quite.
For one room was occupied, its patient still as death on his lonely bed. The medical equipment had been turned off weeks ago but still his chest rose and fell, still breath passed through his nostrils. Still he lived.
His doctors had given up on him and had stopped checking on his progress months ago. The nurses had done the same, but had maintained their routine of daily visits... right up until one of them had quietly shut off his monitor and support machines.
The nurses claimed they didn't know which of their number had done it, but only amongst themselves. No one else seemed to have noticed.
But he had seen her. He knew her name. He had vowed revenge on all of them, but she had risen to the top of his list in that moment. They would all pay, though her price would be dearest.
As soon as he was fully recovered.
Write a four line poem about: opinions.
Mine wasn't inspired by anything that happened today, just by a thought I had after reading an acquaintance's post on Facebook earlier this week.
The market went really well this morning, as the crowds were quite profuse thanks to the triathlon happening tomorrow. Them athletes like their fruit, it seems.
He has many opinions,
Knows all of them are right;
I remain unconvinced,
But it's not worth the fight...
Write four lines of prose about: the pizza shop.
Woke up this morning to rain, which thankfully stopped fairly quickly. But my first thought was along the lines of 'Great, it's going to be a wet and muddy pick'. My second thought?
Oh crap, my iPhone is going to get ruined.
Normally I just shove my cell in my pocket while I'm working in the garden, so by the end of my three years with the previous phone it was pretty crusty with dirt. I was feeling less than excited about doing that to my new gadget.
I managed to get through the harvest (and it was a good one!) without damaging it, but I can see that I'm going to need to take a few more precautions with this one than I have with previous models.
The cook stood in the alley behind the shop, an unlit cigarette dangling precariously from thick lips. He clutched a lighter in his fist as he contemplated the collection of discarded items littering the ground around him.
He didn't really want to have a smoke, he'd been trying to quit for so long.
But, he thought to himself as the flame flickered into existence, it was the easiest way to get the overpowering smell of pizza out of his clothes.
Write about: the upgrade.
Mostly finished weeding the corn this morning. Guess that last row and a half will have to wait until this weekend.
Our farm intern is returning bright and early tomorrow morning to help me with the market harvest. Then we have her for just over a week and her time with us shall be done.
At which point all weeding will end and I will spend all my time in the garden madly picking produce...
As I mentioned yesterday, I went in to town this afternoon in order to look into getting a new phone. My old one had recently started randomly searching for service, for no apparent reason and in places that it had never done so before, for minutes at a time.
Eventually it would locate a connection and it would be useable again... but then it would do it again within a few minutes.
To say the least, it was not inspiring trust in its continued functionality.
I brought it in earlier in the week to get it looked at and they tried a couple of things to fix it, though they warned me neither was likely to work. At the time my options were to send it away to try to get it fixed or buy a new phone, both of which would have run over a hundred dollars.
But then I had a look at my account online (I was actually checking to see when my contract would be up for renewal, which coincides with a free replacement phone) and saw that there were a few upgrade/renew phone options. I took a closer look and found one that I could get for free if I signed on for another two years.
So I am now the... reluctant isn't the right word... proud certainly isn't either... hesitant? Sure, let's go with that. I am now the hesitant owner of an iPhone. The only cell phones I've ever had were very basic models because I didn't use them for anything other than calling and texting. I'm not really expecting to use this one any differently, though I might check email on it a few times a week or so.
But so far I like it, as it definitely does a few things much better than my previous phones. And now when I get a call in public I might actually look like I belong in this century.
Assuming I can figure out how to answer incoming calls...
Write something that has to do with: mixed signals.
Managed to harvest a bunch of things for the bakery and restaurant this morning before making the deliveries this afternoon. After dinner I started weeding one of our later sections of corn, which was quite badly in need of it.
Hoping to finish that off tomorrow morning before getting going on the weeds taking over the onion rows.
And then, quite possibly, getting a new cell phone in the afternoon. My current one is over three years old and seems to be on its last legs. We'll see how things go at the store.
The air cannons started booming
All around the valley today;
The grape growers smugly shouting
For all the birds to stay away.
In fields and upon tree branches
Feathered heads perk up, turn around;
Flocks take wing as kings cry shrilly:
Quick, quick, my lads! Follow that sound!
Don't dare linger this is a race,
There can only be one winner!
Faster, fly like never before -
Heed the farmer's call to dinner!
Write two haiku that have something to do with: submarines.
Another box day down. Hard to believe there's only one more in August and then we're into the September produce for our customers.
Our farm intern is taking a couple days off to visit with family who are vacationing in Penticton, so it's just me, Kat, and Max around here for the next little bit. I'm looking forward to the time to ourselves.
Far below the waves
slipping silently toward
* * *
A drunken card game,
accusations of cheating,
then: Man overboard!
Write about something that has been: dismantled.
Max is certainly becoming very adept at taking things apart these days. I look forward to the time when he starts putting them back together afterward.
Also: apparently he knows how to open cupboards now?
Trouble is a coming and there's no end in sight.
The base had been dismantled years before our arrival, stripped clean of equipment, weapons, food. In short: everything that might have been useful to us in our dire state.
Everything, that is, except the roof over our heads and the walls surrounding us. Barriers between our ragtag group and the harsh elements outside. The biting wind, the miserable rain... we were safely beyond their demoralizing grasp.
For a short while, at least. It was a respite, though we knew it could only be brief. Our supplies would only last for so long before we were forced back outdoors to find more sustenance. We would delay that moment as much as possible but each of us was aware that it was drawing closer with every intake of breath.
And that, somewhere beyond those comforting walls, they would be waiting for us.
Write about: the exterminator.
I have to admit, I had trouble choosing which direction to go with mine because I had so many different takes on this one. I hope one or two of you manage to take it places I wanted to but, in the end, did not.
Had a very social day, as we went up to Penticton to have lunch with some of Kat's relatives before coming home to have a potluck BBQ with some friends on our deck. Really enjoyed it, even though it was a much busier day off than we usually have.
A phone call is all it takes. Dial the number, leave the details, walk away from your problems. He will arrive in your absence, stone-faced and ready to go to war. His van will lurk in your driveway, unmarked yet menacing, while he performs his work.
That work will be brutally efficient and thorough. No target will be missed, no survivors will remain. That is his solemn guarantee and it has never been broken.
You will return to a home, or an office, or a store, and there will be no trace of his presence. More importantly, there will be no signs of the problem he was brought in to eliminate. You will be satisfied.
And he, as he sits alone by his phone awaiting his next assignment, will beg forgiveness for what he has done.
Write a four line poem about: guidance.
Only brought less than half a crate of peaches back home with us today. I'd call that a pretty good market.
Well, I mean we also returned with a lot of cherry tomatoes and some zucchini, pears, and garlic, but that was expected. Selling that amount of peaches was not.
So, yeah, good day.
In the dark of night
The spirits provide direction,
But in morning's light
Their wisdom meets with rejection.
Write four lines of prose about: the agent.
Hauling 14 crates of beautiful peaches to market tomorrow morning, along with lots of tomatoes, berries, corn, and even some garlic.
The forecast is calling for pretty ideal temperatures, so hopefully the crowds respond in kind.
My memories of those first days in the Witness Protection Program are admittedly hazy. There was so much secrecy and commotion, and I always seemed to be surrounded by a whirlwind of people and documents.
But there is one day in particular that I remember with perfect clarity, for it contained a moment that cannot be erased from my mind.
It was the exact second that I realized that I could never trust an FBI agent ever again.
Write about something that is: backlogged.
Finally got around to weeding out our swiss chard this morning. With the restaurant ordering several pounds of it each week it was really worth doing.
This evening I got started with cleaning up the garlic we harvested... um, too long ago. Thankfully they didn't seem to mind the delay, as the vast majority of the bulbs I worked with looked really good. It was a nice change compared to previous years, which saw close to fifty percent of the garlic damaged due to either bugs or being left in the ground too long.
He sits in silence,
Not in peace -
For his work never
Seems to cease.
His poor desk trembles,
Starts to tilt;
All of this pressure
Makes him wilt.
His sigh is heavy,
His heart cold,
As he keeps doing
What he's told.
We're going back to the first line prompt today, so use the following as your opening sentence and then take it where you will:
This pursuit is destroying me.
Harvested a ridiculous amount of tomatoes for the restaurant this morning. I think I ended up with 23 pounds of heirlooms and 12 pounds of beefsteak - plus the bakery wanted 6 pounds of cherry tomatoes as well.
Tomorrow should be a relatively quiet day before we return to harvesting on Friday as we prepare for another market.
I am so behind on replying to comments. My apologies. I will get to them, eventually.
This pursuit is destroying me. The never-ending paranoia, a constant urge to look over my shoulder, at every new face that enters my vicinity. Nights filled with too-short snippets of sleep, always waking panicked in unfamiliar environs.
I don't know how much longer I can do this. Days, maybe. Weeks at the very most.
A safe haven, that's what I need. Somewhere I can stay, be at peace, rest a while. Get my feet under me again, breath back in my lungs. Recover.
I am beginning to fear, however, that such a place does not exist for men such as myself.
Write two haiku about: rhythm.
Big harvest day, but we managed to get everything we needed out of the garden and into the boxes. I always find it especially satisfying when I see a check mark next to every single item on our picking list at the end of the morning.
Or early afternoon, as is often the case.
It always takes longer to collect everything than I figure it will.
He's always one step
behind, or so it seems; he
walks to his own beat.
* * *
Fingers attack with
ruthless abandon; the poor
guitar had no chance.
Write about: the dinner party.
Sorry, Greg, that's the best I could do. I've already used potluck as a prompt. Way back in the days when haiku did not yet rule Tuesdays, but still.
An upset stomach kept me out of the garden today, but seems to have knocked it off now. So hopefully it won't decide to return in order to screw with tomorrow's box harvest.
Michael, as always, brought his favorite dish. No one was quite sure what it was, only that it smelled unpleasantly of fish. If you're taking a bite, I'd suggest making a wish.
Dave walked through the door with a plate in each hand. Which, at first, sounds quite grand. Until you realize that one offering is beyond bland and the other is covered with sand.
Terry arrived in style, wearing his usual gap-toothed smile. The best I can say for his food is that only sometimes it tastes like bile. The rest of the time... there are no words, it's just too vile.
My contribution to the party, you ask? Ah, it's about time - I've been waiting to bask! It's the one over there, in the metal flask. Oh, but before you go try a sample... you should probably put on this gas mask.
Write about: a vision of the future.
After a fairly quiet and relaxing day off, Kat and I brought Max with us to a potluck dinner with some friends just south of Oliver this evening. Much good food was eaten, much good times were had.
Back to the garden tomorrow.
There were several other families at the dinner tonight, each with at least one child with them. I think the total was eight kids (not including Max), and I'm pretty sure it worked out evenly - four boys, four girls.
The youngest was around two years old, the eldest maybe eight. When they weren't eating (which was only briefly) or jumping on the trampoline (which was often), they were pretty much running around constantly.
There were tears, there was laughter, there was a whole lot of getting into things they weren't supposed to be getting into.
During all this Max was sitting in mine or Katherine's lap, other than a brief visit with one of the other mothers at the table. He ate his dinner, he smiled a lot, he babbled for a while. It was nice.
But it was hard, with evidence aplenty, to avoid thinking about where all this is headed one day...
Write a four line poem about something that has been: squeezed.
We had a really good market today, despite the extra work involved. The setup and take down weren't actually the worst part though - it was having to go down two or three stalls to find enough space every time I needed to get out from behind our table in order to replenish fruit crates at the front of our stall.
Normally that's just a matter of stepping around our own table, which takes about ten seconds. But we were all so tight together today that it was much more of a process, especially when the crowds were thick.
Anyway. We moved a lot of fruit and didn't bring much produce back home, so I'm not in much of a position to complain.
We're smushed in tight,
There's barely room to breathe;
To be honest?
I just really want to leave.
Write four lines of prose that have something to do with: smoke.
Not especially looking forward to the market tomorrow, as it's Peach Fest weekend. With the big parade going down Main Street in Penticton, we're getting shuffled off to the side in a much smaller space than usual - which means no room for vehicles.
So we get to arrive in the morning, dump everything off the truck into our spot, then park elsewhere. Then do it all in reverse at the end of the day... though hopefully by then we'll have a whole lot less stuff to move around.
Anyway, between the big crowds and having fewer vendors around to compete with for said crowds business, it should be a good market.
My vision was obscured by the long-lingering smoke as I stumbled through the wreckage. I could have been about to walk off the edge of a cliff for all I knew. But I had to do something, go somewhere.
Remaining in the downed plane would have meant certain death.
Write about: the suitcase.
Just over a week after the fact, Kat and I went out for dinner tonight to celebrate our third wedding anniversary. We left Max with Kat's parents and had a lovely time at Mica, though our son was never too far from our thoughts.
Especially with the five or six other babies at the restaurant.
Our little man is still doing well, now that Kat has cut both dairy and gluten out of her diet. It may just be a coincidence, but we're not really feeling like testing it quite yet. At some point we'll want to know for sure; for now we're just happy to have our happy, energetic baby back.
All alone it spins
Around and around
On the carousel
Lost and not yet found
Will someone claim it
Or does a man wait
Patiently for it
In another state?
As promised on Monday, today we're going back to Mejaran.
Somehow, someway, Max turned nine months old today. Three quarters of a year already. Ridiculous. Don't you think, Max?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
Yarel had equipped himself well in the melee, though you'd have struggled to convince him of anything of the sort had you come across him that night. Huddled in a tool shed behind the forge, shivering from shock and blood loss, he certainly didn't seem to have come out of the mess by the north bridge on the winning side.
But his actions had likely saved lives, whether he knew it or not. He'd certainly helped Azmar in those opening moments. How could he not? Without a soul by his side the estate agent must have been facing down eight or nine men, each with at least one weapon drawn and ready to be used.
Not having time to fully consider what he was doing, Yarel had darted out of the crowd and plunged his knife into the nearest attacker's back. He could have killed the man easily, had he been more ruthless. Instead his blow landed near the shoulder, causing the stranger to cry out in pain as his sword splashed down into the mud at his feet.
Two of the man's companions had turned at the disturbance and wasted no time in advancing upon the boy. Yarel had backed away slowly, his arm already bleeding from where the stitches had ripped away during his initial foray. By then Azmar had engaged with two or three other men with a shout and clanging steel, and other defenders of Mejaran had begun emerging from the crowd to fend off the invaders.
Yarel saw two members of the dueling club step forward - he could not for the life of him remember their names at the time - before he was consumed with the business of keeping his head attached to his shoulders. He remembered drawing blood on each man before taking a glancing blow to his left leg that sent him crashing into a puddle.
Raising his knife as he scrambled awkwardly backward, he was certain that his last moments were upon him. That was when Orsana appeared out of thin air to knock one of his attackers to the ground with a punch that left the man with a broken jaw.
"Get out of here, youngblood!" she had yelled over her shoulder as she took up a position between Yarel and the remaining man. "Go! Now!"
Much to his own shame, Yarel had obeyed. He'd found the unlocked shed a few confusing minutes later and had remained there until dark, long after the sounds of battle had died away. It was time to get home, he knew that. He was just having trouble getting moving again.
Finally, in the pitch black of the middle of the night, with rain still leaking from the heavens, he limped outside and headed for his waiting mother. He paused often to stare into deeper shadows, and jumped at every unexpected noise. Halfway to his destination he took a brief rest, leaning against the doorway of the baker's shop.
That was when he saw Azmar emerge from a home four doors down, standing in the pool of light cast by a lantern inside as he surveyed the street. Yarel was about to call out when a sodden glove clamped down over his mouth.
"Not a word." Liefert's voice was an urgent hiss in his ear.
Yarel did as he was told, all of the fight drained from his body by the day's events. He had questions, so many questions, but they could wait until morning. After sleep. And another visit to Dr. Maximus. And perhaps a stiff drink or three.
As they watched, Azmar looked over his shoulder and beckoned someone from inside the home he had just left. A few moments passed before a second figure joined the estate agent in the street, closing the door quickly behind him, extinguishing the light with it.
But not before the hidden observers saw the distinctive features of Principal Olean.
Write two haiku about: the future.
Another successful box day down. We're in the plentiful time of year, as the decisions are now about what to leave out of the boxes each week, rather than what can we possibly put in them.
Max had a good day, pretty much from start to finish. Maybe we're on the other side of this little nightmare at last.
The future looks bright
from where I'm standing right now;
may it stay that way.
* * *
Some say the present
is a gift, but the future
is my gift to you.
Write about: the outburst.
This really should have been the day we returned to Mejaran but I'm not really feeling up to it. So the plan is to do that on Wednesday, assuming nothing else goes haywire before then.
Picked a whole bunch of blackberries today. Didn't finish, but at least I got enough to cover the boxes for tomorrow. If we get everything else picked in a reasonable amount of time then we'll get the rest of the berries afterward.
Max had a pretty good day, aside from a bit of unusual sleepiness this morning. Once he got over that he was in rare form though.
The beach is quiet now; night has replaced the long gone sunbathers and swimmers. Had any remained the sand would be cool beneath their feet, the air soft and warm against their skin. They would find the silence quite peaceful, I think.
But no visitor lingered beyond sundown.
So there is no one to watch the waves brush against the shore. No nostrils to breathe in the refreshing scents of the ocean, now unchallenged by lotions and creams born in laboratories all across the globe.
And no one is around to hear the still echoing cries of children as they protest announcements that it is time to go home.
Write something that has to do with: breathing.
Because lately remembering to breathe has been a challenge.
Max is currently sleeping peacefully at home with us. Can't ask for much more than that.
Well, I mean, I could. I very, very easily could.
But I'm trying to be grateful for what I have.
A forgotten breath
Is held tight,
Marooned and consumed
By some fright.
A hand reaches out
In the dawn,
Life goes on.
Write a four line poem about: learning.
We had a really excellent market, as the crowds were plentiful right from the get go. Sold an impressive amount of nectarines, all of the peaches and apples and berries, almost all of our cherry tomatoes, and a record number of my cards (22, as best I can figure out - I don't think I'd ever sold more than 10 at a single market before).
So I was feeling pretty good as we were packing up the truck to head back home.
And then Kat's dad showed up and put an end to that.
He'd brought Kat and Max up to the hospital to get our little one checked out again, as he really hasn't been himself lately. For periods of time, anyway. In between those bouts (of whatever) he's raring to go.
He drove the truck back to Osoyoos and I took the car over to emergency. They ran a few more tests, made a couple of suggestions, and then we spent the night at Kat's aunt and uncle's place in Penticton.
Which is why this is going up so late.
Currently, Max is doing well again. There have been no further episodes since Saturday morning and we're hoping that the extra things we're trying are helping him. We'll see, I guess.
The little one learned to say Da
Just the other day.
Now if he'd stop after just two
We'll be on our way.
Also: if he would only say Dadadadadadadadadada while looking at me, instead of anybody and everybody, that would make it a little more special.
Write four lines of prose about: hanging on.
So Max isn't quite clear of this yet, it appears. He had some rather nasty vomiting this afternoon that had us pretty concerned. But, as usual with him, he bounced right back within a few minutes and has been remarkably chipper ever since.
Not sure how much more of this I can take.
Heading back to the market tomorrow with a ridiculous amount of nectarines. We'll see how much of it we end up bringing home.
It knows it is not welcome here. It knows there are those who would do absolutely anything - yes, even that - in order to banish it from their presence for all eternity. It knows the pain and anguish it is causing.
And yet still it refuses to leave... still it hangs on.
Write something that has has to do with: appearances.
Good lord, it's August already? What.
Max seems to be doing well. I still have a minor heart attack whenever he wakes up at night though. But I'm sure that'll pass. Eventually.
It had been a long drive, preceded by not enough sleep. The sun had seared away any clouds that had dared consider getting between it and the earth below. The man stood on the sidewalk, feeling like a chicken roasting in an oven, and contemplated the shaded lawn before him.
The house appeared unoccupied at the moment. Traffic on the road behind him was light and it seemed like every other pedestrian in the city had enough sense to stay inside, or go to the beach, or... well, be anywhere other than that sweltering street.
He scratched his beard, which was far too enthusiastic for his liking, and considered his options. A nap was terribly tempting, and the cool grass delightfully inviting. But he didn't want any trouble, and there was one factor that he worried wasn't working in his favor.
In his current state, just how similar in appearance was he to a homeless bum?