Make sense of it
Muddy from the flooded trail, I run into our street and see him picking up scattered bits of litter.
Not a man of many words, he waves. Shiny black shoes, crisp charcoal trousers, starched white shirt, neatly knotted tie. He’s been retired for years now, but he’s still up and about early each day. He’s also wearing a yellow lumo vest for safety even though the few cars on our street won’t
