Mustard

Transformers meet for lunch near the corner of Elm and Wasatch. Pigeons wait for crumbs. Cars circle the block. Cafe's become more than concrete, steel and empty. That is the setting of a stone. The stone of Earlach. Seems it may have stood the test of time, but not the test of man. Some things erode slowly, others corrode quickly. What transformed the rock is beyond any count of the count of the seasons. In a blink it disappeared into the pavement. Beyond that is a pigeon. Simply not the passenger kind. Again, those also ended their ways on this earth. Abruptly. Rather the large, unruly, hungry, do anything for a quarter pounder with cheese kind of pigeons. The kind which leave you wondering which side of mean you exist on. Or even if there is such a thing as wrong or right. For the hunger has its own set of rules. Rules which once looked, acted and enforced rational and lucid principles. Rules reduced to survival. Transformers one and all, except for the corner of Elm and Wasatch. That lives on in memory. Untouched by transformation. Thrown apart by the simple mirror of recall. A camelot sitting forever out of reach in a snow-globe of static being, dreaming of transformation.