Tired eyes gazing out at the lamp post, standing rigid beside the worn picket fence. White, but chipping. It needed to repainted but it fell on the list of things to accomplish that most likely will never be accomplished. It's all relative. Marriage. Kids to raise. Divorce. And the mounting list of things that needed to be done. And the ever growing pile of things to be mended. And the always decreasing amount of spare time.

A bird, innocent, and happy in its ignorant glory, perched on the fence. The fence that had bore the strain of many animals and many storms. Rotten wood adorned with chipping paint. So scenic in its disrepair.

Wind, a soft progression of chimes in the distance. Enough to snap one out of a reverie.