Floating
They were digging again.
The grassy lot that sat between two aged brick homes served as a playground for generations until the people in bright yellow arrived. I stood just across the street, the opaque barrier making it impossible to see anything up close, to watch them moving about from the neck up. Some worked silently, expressions etched with razor sharp focus. Others spoke and laughed frequently, faces as bright as a Sunday morning. The sting of my nails pressed harshly in my palms did nothing for my temper . Our once peaceful block was now home to loud, rattling and unapologetic men and machinery.
