On one side you had neatly arranged trash bins that were scuffed up on the corners. A smidgen of lettering peeled here and there, but enough were visible to determine where the glass and plastic went versus where they dumped the rest of the trash. Then there was me. Three feet away next to the recyclables trying to sleep. I don’t know for sure if that’s a metaphor. Regardless, the symbolism was spread awfully thick. Or was I just depressed? Maybe I would’ve thought that a bird flying in the air was something more than just a gliding rat looking for another power line to plop down on. Good thing there wasn’t a breeze because I would’ve attributed that to a higher power nudging me against the wall. But garbage and me? I got it. I flattened my chin on the ground and had a direct view into the garage through a mesh vent near the clothes dryer. The little clean dog from inside, Missy, shot into the garage like a bowling ball of fluff.
