Idle rain puddles sit on the road.
Zooming cars spit some on my sighing legs on the sidewalk.
Bustling folks whizz past my watchful elbows.
Soil's flavour hangs fresh in the air while ignorant mouths wolf down rushed flavours with focused eyes on the piles of villainous papers.
The dusk tainted with birdies, watches over the heedless humans race to their safe nests.
The cold zephyr dances with the lush leaves of the oblivious.
And the denizens of cities waltz with their work day and night.
Even at humble homes, with the smirking screens on sulking hands, pushing away the sweet home into acrid oblivion.

Life's to be lived,
not to be raced.
It's not a track,
but a blooming garden with iridescent memories.