This week seems like a good week to start off with a poem.
Rays of sunshine shooting through the frosted sky
speckled with shades of grey, blue, but mostly red.
Technology flies by, a tin can with hundreds of lives
depending on its wings.
Underneath them, on the ground,
there is nothing but a sound,
attacking the ears of bystanders.
The trees are still,
the grass is ill,
only knowing that it is thirsty.
Inside, however, we humans are clever.
creating our own climate
of comfort, breeze, and weather.
*bing* An email from a client.