Billed-ing

Sparks from the machine blade fly, spewing embers as it licks the metal. Encumbered clouds perspire a patterned moisture that fills the air with a dusty smell. The particles stirred up from the daily foolishness return to Earth in a weepy apology, and fall prostrate to the ground. The coolness of the morning forgives more than it should, and those awake to work the grinder and the saw welcome the blanket as it caresses their hot skin in a breeze.