Though the sky is the same, the ground is not sand. It is a bed

of pebbles, with a few lakes of blue pooling between the rocks;

if only we were still on the banks of the black sea. In the blossom

tree’s shadow, the murmur of traffic, the rustling of plastic bags

singing with the yelps of a dog not wanting to be bathed, potted

plants bud and a plastic flower spins in the breeze. The sun blinks

and the dove coo's, a fly buzzes and a spider crawls along

the faded picnic bench; perhaps you see and hear them too?

The weather station still points to the four corners of the earth,

while the man and his horse walk in the direction of the wind.