The Last Sociologist
He followed the progress of a
flock of migrating dust motes,
made visible by a skin of light
drawn through a narrow gap
in the curtains.
"There must be a draft in
here after all," he said.
"Going south for the
winter, little ones?"
No answer.
He noted how the skin of light
resembled a length of wrapping
paper drawn from a vertical roll,
the kind you used to find in the
gift-wrap department back in the days
when escalators were made of wood.
"Wouldn't it be interesting, if I could
tear off a length of that light and wrap
something in it?" he thought.
"It's not practical," he concluded, "but
I'll sit here and watch for a while
longer just the same."
