Through layers of sound juxtaposing the interwoven jungle of vertigo inducing branches atop leering old trees, I spot a haze ridden wake left by planes o'er head – soon the slipstream shall ease into a putrefying crayon scrawl across the endless expanse above me, lost inextricably within the vision of a few wayward travelers: the Frisbee flies on numerous occasions, though prancing practitioners hail the sky only in their expedition of retrieval; footy fellows juggle whilst spying upon scantily clad lassies (though the adjective applying merely in respect to the bundled garmentry invoked on a usual midwinter's day); egghead hair-bare professors cross by as well, fastidiously inspecting a well informed manuscript (but I expect not but a trickle of information transfers to those beady eyes, for this paper functions wholeheartedly as a disengagement from pestering onlookers wishing to babble on and on about a trivial matter of small talk); and I surmise that like all the others, not even the originators of a skunky sweet odor wisping wearily through the now cooling air noted the sky's jagged scar – only myself and the observant ocular sensors of twin toddlers (the kind firmly sheathed by arms of a mother wandering through a field of obfuscated collegiate memories), who, might I add, terminated in their toddling to spy me nestled in the barky embrace of a decrepit tree, so entranced by a mysterious visage as to tilt my own premature egghead to deftly inscribe a fourth apple pi's angle in the then ravishingly reminiscent space containing my flesh, and this most assuredly catalyzed the intrepid youngster to gaze shell-shocked upon the aircraft's now faded calligraphy.
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