Energetic storms rolled through with what epic gloriosity the likes of which such stale, desert concretescape had never seen. Hail smashed onto the pavement and fat raindrops gathered into puddles, moving with the purpose of a river and pooling around sleepy gutters suddenly called to function.
The cars carrying the patrons of Big Box Retail sloshed and skidded through stop signs, still trying to get to Target, Wal-Mart and Kroger before turning back – no inclement weather could interrupt a consumer Sunday already underway. The lesson of the ensuing rash of traffic accidents was lost on them; the habit to spend money earned (or not) during the week and to accumulate more was deep and essential in their small, narrow worlds
The poor, pinched trees, planted by some inept developer hastening to manufacture landscape and ambience, buckled and smarted from the unfamiliar pelts of water. Attention from Mother Nature was as foreign to them as the watering vast plains of concrete was fruitless to her. The trees were strangled in ruffs of bark chips and had never known a breath of fresh air. It occurred to me that might be why I always feel short of breath here. There are too many of us, we inhabitors of suburban sprawl, for the oxygen available. A parking lot here feels more natural than a park. As the cars dimpled from hailstones and buckled under a suicidal tree, I felt keenly the incongruity of this use of the world.
Insight to Riot 