This is the age when an old horse goes to the glue factory after years of dragging tourists in black carriages on his back. This is the age of rain: a bank of clouds and fat teardrops striking the drought laced fields. No hearts or wings left to admire. The bees have left for the coast, the birds hide in witness protection. Mermaids are synonymous with fish wives though they have not labored on the docks. This is the age of seeing your anniversary watch broken, its thin hands off balance, its face cracked and scarred from the car accident. Time frozen. Didn’t I tell you twice to watch for that stop sign? Didn’t I tell you this worn stretch of country road would be the certain death of us?