The sun lay comatose on the sky's veranda, a hollow halogen for those tethered to its pull.
Soft spring songs swim through breeze like schools of fish drawn to the odor of fresh mulch.
The distant mower cuts a carpet of multifarious grass atop a pampered dirt,
asking the Earth of its faculty, cacophonous and coughing gasoline.
A seething and still gravel road carves through the surface of the crust,
imparting a passageway to an island
swallowed on each side by efficient and mass distributed cathedrals of carpentry,
drafted by architects and subsumed by engineers.
The buzzing industry of the mower has given way,
the only energy remaining is fluted by the symphony of blue jays and house finch.
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