On the windowsill
He sat,
Staring at the sky,
Writing words
Known only in his head,
Leaning against a reflection,
Watching the moon,
Listening to the wind
Drifting through the trees,
Hearing the faint voices
Of people walking
And talking
On a Saturday night.
Walking through the college greens
On a warm night
Some random song stuck in my head
Playing on repeat once again
Smelling the new flowers blooming
In the garden near my favorite picnic table
Humid air drifts through the streets
Carrying the scent of damp leaves
The birds sing songs of joy
While gathering food for their young
Flowers begin to sprout among the grass and moss
Pride of bovine kind
Wanderer of the mountains
None could best a yak
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