A herald of a by-gone era,
Before the plastic gallon jugs
that cut off circulation to your fingers.

The fingertips of the mountians
Are bathed in cold, frothy milk,
And framed by towers of triangles
That compose bird-like structures
That must be broken down and rebuilt
Every time they migrate.

Parallel to the towering cranes
Stand the reminants of naked trees,
Full of clamoring colors,
Informing me that if I so desired,
I could live from show
To show
And never
Sleep.