The first Twizzler, or the one-third that is left of it, faces downward, defying gravity as it clings to the rusted storm drain grate. Almost hidden among leaf debris, it is easy to miss. How do I know it is facing downward? That it is clinging, not sticking? I just do.
Up the block, all that remains are light green, wind-blown Twizzler shreds on the sidewalk where Twizzler Number Two, the rest of Twizzler Number One, and the shriveled apple used to be.
Cosmic clean-up force or concerned citizen? We will never know.
Bound for greatness, the first Twizzler is waiting for just the right moment. I am sure of it.
8:00 PM Epilogue: The first Twizzler has left the building–or at least the side of the storm drain grate.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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