Something broken.  Spread out and unforgiving of its violence, a fruit salad ending.  The seeds shrivel, finding no purchase on baked concrete, gasping in the dust thick air.  Liquid arms reach out in silent desperation for whatever sustenance is available, but finding only evaporation, fade as flicks of spit.  And yet, the contrasts of red and green play wild in the August sun, shattered splats paint bit parts of utter joy. 


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