Coryphantha

This week seems like a good week to start off with a poem.

 

Rays of sunshine shooting through the frosted sky

speckled with shades of grey, blue, but mostly red.

Technology flies by, a tin can with hundreds of lives

depending on its wings.

 

Underneath them, on the ground,

there is nothing but a sound,

slowly passing,

attacking the ears of bystanders.

 

The trees are still,

the grass is ill,

only knowing that it is thirsty.

 

Inside, however, we humans are clever.

creating our own climate

of comfort, breeze, and weather.

*bing* An email from a client.

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