A Thought in a Puddle

Imagine a puddle.

No, wait. Imagine a blue puddle.

Imagine it smells more like an old person than it does an accumulation of fleshy muds congealed in a mass of wet colors and miniature fœtid life.

An old person with a blue rinse, yes.

And a wet, but happy looking dog.

Both strolling indifferently and amicably about the park in a fashion that is mostly assumed by old people and wet dogs. Occasionally the dog stops to make a pungent puddle of its own, but aside from that, the two of them pursue a meandering, ceaseless route through the park's kempt foliage and doddering memorials that seem not to aim for closure or for personal enjoyment. On the contrary, they both seem to be partaking of a kind of endless business; the woman with her blue rinse puddle, and the dog with its intermittent stream of acrid liquid.

Together they form a greenish glint interspersed with tadpoles, the blue and the yellow - almost completely invisible amongst the parks substantial vegetation. But then again, it was only a puddle.