Streets rats

It was already dark, and the temperature fell as the city bore the brunt of the latest cold front.
Wrapped around in a warm wolly jumper, I trembled while walking home.

Then, out of nowhere, a street rat appeared.
A frail, old woman, with graying hair, and a wrinkling face. She squatted, next to the pavement, next to her trolly-ful of the latest treasures she managed to dig out from the streets and sidestreets of the city. Carton boxes, plastic bottles, pressed-down coke cans, polystene, and glass. They piled on top of one another like an artificial mountain, testament to the amazing amounts of wast we produce. Testament too, to the energy that a frail, old woman can muster on an dark, cold night.

She was not alone. From an alleyway more of her companions lugged their load and appeared from the darkness. Their faces were dirty, their clothes ragged and foul. But their eyes and voices radiated with such joy, such warmth and purity.

I walked passed them, but the sight of their lives and smiles followed.