Instrumentalizing the fountain flower is a reverie obstructed by its very means of flow. A black rubber tube fastens a trifecta of cylindrical breakage, leaving tracks of a time when it was, though still beautiful, upholding an original design. Crafted and built, assigned then delivered, only to be reversed in its order of existence. A dry Summer, which now begets unbathed birds and a garden looking to replace a now vacant space is what it knows. And also, a person, I imagine, who must have fought for this, but lost.
   This tends to be the nature of things.