‘Definitely
No Junk Mail’ declares the letterbox. Tidiness and time-saving mix with
righteousness. But what of the leaflet walkers, their weekly drops a small
extra to shrunken income? The paper has to be recycled anyway. Temperature
drops, ten degrees in an hour some days in March. Out without an umbrella,
goosebumps on tanned forearms. Bumped his head, went to bed, needed some drops
in the morning. Rain, rain, goes away, to where the alps take early snow. White
it drops, slow as leaves on random discarded leaflets in tidy suburbs. It’s a
cold change, ice in the air, definitely snow.
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