The grey spectrum sky is traced with jet-lines,
giving backdrop to a lone mallard
persistently fighting the fall breeze
that dances patterns along the lake’s surface.
In the distance, car traffic is reduced to ants,
clogging the street’s arteries to their own demise
of fuming faces, flipping fingers, and honking horns.
A fading forest rises from the opposite shoreline,
shedding leaves eagerly in an assumed quest
to resemble the three stoic towers
which elevate equilaterally to catch and release
radio tunes and broadcast news buffoons.
Sparse sunrays are a welcome sight,
which are violently stripped of their warmth
by the blasphemous breeze that has defeated
the lone mallard, the jet-lines, and me.
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