Herds of turtles totter in the twisting rain. Hiding from the sky’s sad tears under deployable cloth shells. They mumble and bumble in the cold mist, avoiding accidental trysts with bumps and grumbles. So the turtles go their lonely way, huddled in their bundles, stumping through the rain.
Even when the sky clears and the rain has gone away. The streets are still filled with turtles, though they lack their leathery shells. Surrounded by bubbles of protection unseen by naked eye. Few homeless turtle will convene on their way even on a pleasant day. Still they walk with heads bowed and eyes slit against the rain of life. Ears plugged with melodies to drown out their moans and the groans of their brethren. Under umbrellas made from preconceptions and fear, they walk alone in the sun.
Waxing Philosophical 