Birds fly around. I toss pita bread in the backyard like Frisbees. Trees are yellowing, turning orange, and rust. An American flag waves in a front yard down the street. The library parking lot is empty.

Semis drive by on Highway 41. Out of state plates. Missouri, Illinois, Ohio, Pennsylvania, all of these diesels traveling in one line. Making their way north and south. Maybe ending up in Arkansas or Florida. Just like the birds.

Kids on bikes riding to school. Cursing and talking like their parents. Repeating political slogans. No original thought. We are all sheep.