Stripes of camouflage do not detract from its vibrancy and its melancholy nature. 

Its branches gracefully extend outwards like the delicate flick of a ballerina’s wrist.

Water, water, stretching out beyond my mind’s eye where it touches the sky. 

Smoke rises lazily above the screeching of rubber tires frantically trying to grip the ground. 

Blank identities glinting in the sunlight. 

Repetition upon repetition.  Lines upon lines.  And once again. 

Peekaboo.  I see you. 

They circle overhead with ominous portent.