I passed it last week on my rush to the morning train: a heap of broken glass. Nothing unusual, but it started me wondering whether all glass breaks into little uneven squares, or just car windows. And how it gets a green look along the edges, this clear stuff we look through all day.

It rained.

I passed it on my walk to the train, it was Sunday, I had time. The glass sat in a shallow patch of water, not deep enough to be called a puddle. Half submerged. I had a hard time breathing, for a minute. If ever I had wished to be a photographer, that was the moment.

It shone even though the sun wasn't out. Clear, sparkling and one thousand other cliches.

It hurt to look at.

Yesterday, on my way home I notice a few scattered chunks of glass lying around. Remnants of beauty, once more reduced to mild pondering. I wonder how the glass got all the way over here, past the grass and onto the wide sidewalk to begin with.