View from the Veranda

A composed observation.

The sprinkler
Sounds like a cicada.
The drone of the air conditioning.

Muffles people talking.
The sweet sound
Of artificial nature.

The shade shields me
From the invisible, invincible
Enemy: heat.

Birds converse from tree to tree.
I wonder if they all speak
The same language?

Man tries to trap me
With behemoth brick
In the open outdoors.

A similar, simple, façade
Adorns every building,
Boringly consistent.

The Trane AC revs
And a gnat I accidentally squished
Has  been resurrected and seeks revenge.

Many lush green trees,
With a sporadic darkening of leaves.
A visible sign of fall.

Mini gardens pressed
Against the buildings, stuck in corners,
An attempt to transition from nature to unnatural.

The cicada sprinkler spastically sputters
While the other bows down
In praise of the library clock.

Cafeteria workers shove carts covered
With cookies and coffeemakers along the pavement,
The sounds marking the imperfections of the path.