The Legion of Milk

The city was filled with wet asphalt monotony, and I, another erythrocyte moving in its blood vessels, sailed on a normal route - door -to -door, from one duty to another. It was not thoughts, but thick kisiel, cloudy and shapeless, offset somewhere at the back of the back. But then, at a turning point on a noisier street, I saw it - an abandoned, municipal -forgotten flowerbed, which was covered between the walls of the broken building and the sidewalk.

It was not neat beauty. It was an anarchist rebellion. From the ground, the forehead of the old man, the wild orphan, with purple and yellow faces, was staring at passers -by with purple and yellow faces. Several tulips, obviously the remains of greatness last year, stood proudly but tired, their petals spread like a repainted old lips that reveal a black, dusty heart. Among them were the milk stems, raising the mature fluff balls, which seemed to be arresting the breath of the only sign - a gust of wind, launching their seed legion into the world. All that patch was forgotten by the battlefield where beauty slowly and persistently won the war against concrete.

And then struck. Not a thought, no feeling. Just a sudden, inexplicable clarity. Everything around it fell, the murmur of the cars turned into a distant, ocean floor. I only saw that flowerbed. I saw not the plants, but the very will of life - the stubborn, irrational, energetic. Each sheet, every color stroke seemed absolutely necessary.

Euphoria. Warm, stunning.

An adult man who stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Staring at weeds.

With my fingers with my fingers, I unconsciously grabbed a slightly relaxed thread at the coat of the coat. Coarse thread folded the skin - a tiny, real anchor in this unexpected sea of amazement. The wind shook the heads of the tulips, and they nodded to me like old friends who knew a secret. The mystery was simple: no sense, except for the one that is just - it pushes, blooms and dies without any question.

I sighed, full of wet air and pollen gold.

I smiled. The Great Revelation of the Day, which happened between the crumbling wall and the street. Tomorrow, it will only turn into a vague memory - another story I will tell myself to convince me that the days have not only weight but also color.

The tip of the thread at the saga still starved his finger.

I let go of him. And I turned around the corner.