The Air of Suburbia

         Scattered rays of the setting sun peeked into the neighborhood for a final warm glimpse. The area had an urban ruggedness that permeated what would otherwise be an ideal suburb. It was all in the little things like the water that had soaked into the pavement of nearby walkways as a product of half-melted snow mounds, like the distant sound of people in the middle of a basketball game in their driveway.
         But the cool breeze did not carry city air, nor did it carry pure country air. No, it carried the dull, recycled air of suburbia. Air which many families secretly lamented to accept, yet were forced to get used to. Across the dormant street, an American flag, a tattered patriotic symbol that stood against the backdrop of old Christmas decorations, was stirred by a soft winter wind.
         A uniform row of single-story houses marked the block across the street. An almost equally-uniform row of economy cars dotted the street itself. Some of the cars were rusted; none of them were especially elaborate or expensive.
         As the sun began to disappear beyond a paved horizon, a small gust attempted to tear the leaves from surrounding branches. But the trees were barren. In the new darkness of the early dusk, the athletic neighbors had ceased their shouting and left their driveway dormant, the melting snow hills remained still, the flag was unshaken, and the stale, recycled air of suburbia lay stagnant in the stillness of the approaching nightfall.