When eastern sky is bereft of its inhabitant puffy clouds gather like pooling tears in the corners of ice. Mellowed weave cascades down, rustling a ticket in front of a skyscraper. My towzled hair has its own rims and fancies as a wheel fuse. Trance shades my one eye, and when I reach out to tuck them into their place, I see riot of tender orange glass dancing about the face cast heavenward. I for once stopped fidgeting with my work in hand to rejoice in the hues of fertile sights
