Crammed in a dead tinbox

I sit on the bench as the blades twirl aimlessly, piercing the sky with tips so lightly sheaned. I know I a-waiting, but for what? For who? Not a child, oh no. I do not associate with them. An owl, perhaps, but I do not normally associate with birds, for obvious reasons that I am a human and they are birds.

Perhaps a message. That would make sense. You know where it is to be delivered, and that it is more than likely to appear, and so you wait however long you need to. Whatever is to be delivered is surely the key to beautiful redemption.

But you wait. And wait. And wait.