And choirs of angels still resound solemnly among the tired stones.

What miracle is wrought when heavy metal is given wings to escape the gravity below?

The streaks of clouds make new pathways in the sky.

The old worn bones slowly melt into dust underneath the shade of the spreading tree, some remembered, most forgotten except by those that lie around them.

It pauses to study its reflection then drifts on as serene clouds are wont to do.

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.