Sitting on a park bench...

The wind blew, the drum line exploded with a ding. As the sun spattered out from the clouds a man lumbered past. Jug in one hand walking stick in another. Before I could become consumed in his odd appearance or even reach out in curiosities gaze a young women past. She was of such a plain and generic form that she stood out like a beacon as she past by me through the commons. It was her nose that garbed me. Over the thunder of the band and the genital purr of the wind I heard it. It came like thunders echo in the night. A single sniffle. It pulled all of my senses to her. I was left to wonder was it a symptom of illness just like my own. Was it simply the drifting pollen of a nearby flower. Or was it the silent echo of a tear. Perhaps a single tear of pain. The fear of another day past or the stinging response to the pain of lose. It will for every remain un-known to I. But I will always stand witness to the women with the sniffle.