The days keep passing through,
Along just as the river's head,
But quiet waning without fuss,
No ripple of a thing unsaid.

Beanbags lounging in the lazy sun,
Mundanely cascade into a misplaced cheer,
Too valiant, maddened for this sleepy sky,
Pulling tight the eyes to joyful little creases.

Maths art,
Dazzling beauty described in little symbols on my screen,
To dream of cardioids,
Contours from the depths of Plato's world,
Now becoming lines upon my screen,
Blues flash gorgeous purple as I wrote,
Bubbling out in rounded strands.

Two behemoths side-eye each other,
Charging to the tune of diverging cast-iron fates,
Yet centimeters from carnage,
The wind seems to buckle and grind out growls and resounding pops in between the mad dash,
And then all is still again,
Only a low whine betrays the ongoing bolt to the next stop...
Maybe to another zealous confrontation also.