the rising sun paints from a vivid palette, but - soon - skies cool
Painted Skies [Haiku]
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monkey pod blossoms,
even in pouring rain,
stay peppy
My walk is in the early hours, in dawn's buttery light. There's a gold glint to all that's pale, whether a wall of white or waters of a placid lake or eucalyptus trunks or on the waving Pampas grass or on the robes of monks. And by the time I've lost that light, the walking hour is done. And I'll be looking forward to when next the day is dun.
The Midnight Circus was not as it seemed. It was bright colors: motion-blurred. It was the tinny monotony of music box-style tinkling tunes & organ tones. One could even make out the scent of fried foods and cotton candy, among the many other [uncircus-like] odors. But there was also the story a mind wrote to dance sensory facts into sensory fictions; that was where the falsity lie. If one opened one's eyes, letting them focus: there'd be sparking wires, & flames licking ever closer. The shrill organ tones would become screams. The summer night's humid heat would become third degree burns. The circus smells would become dust and death and acrid burnt combustibles. So, he didn't open his eyes to war or his impending demise, but let his mind march into that big musty, canvas tent, surrendering to its irreality.
Running through the park, in the light of the rising sun, I pass through a band of cool air, and a little later, pass through a band of warm, humid air. And, I wonder whether I'm having a stroke. Isn't physics supposed to push the warm air over into the cold, or pull the cold air over into the warm, or both, and to keep doing so until the air temperature is an undifferentiated mass? Had I stumbled into a glitch in the Matrix? Was the simulated weather breaking down? Why was thermodynamics misbehaving? I had so many questions, but so few answers. And so many miles to go.