Outside, branches scratch across the sky,
Hues of grey and heavy clouds - traffic passes by invisible
but heard beneath the concrete ledge.
And the passersby, too, go about their morning dance
blindfolded life with a mind full of rhythm
But can they hear the beat? I hear it within,
and I hear it in the taps of keyboard keys. The window
frames the world As It Was Meant To Be,
And here we sit. To speak and to write;
I speak as you write.
