The Flamingo

The pink flamingo stood forlornly on one leg in the early-morning December sun. It’s paint was chipped and it’s plastic had cracked long ago. Where there had once been wings, only rusted screws remained. In the distant past there had been others inhabiting the garden apartment courtyard. One by one, they had disappeared from the lawn, never to be replaced. All the people had died or moved away as well. These days, everyone was a stranger. The flamingo sighed and thought to itself, “When will I get to fly away?”

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