The road to perfection

It was plain sailing on a day such as today, beneath an exquisitely cloudless sky illuminated like a blue sapphire in seemingly endless brilliance round about the unbroken horizon, when the river sparkled in the lemony sunshine and the trees yet retained their copper foliage. Dressed in my grey cotton track pants, a silk scarf about my neck and a jacket atop my sweater, I breezed along the riparian roadway earlier this morning on my three-dimensional tricycle, alternating from one end of the now familiar route to the other then back again until having exhausted the precious moments of the ante meridian.

So much to do to preserve the ever-changing picture of the day as the cool air wafts and whistles. The early afternoon cruise on the rise and fall ribbon of highway, windows down, refreshing the capsule before igniting the heat and recovering the sublime music. Music, the soul of my being, the very tears of my eyes and the nutrition of my body. Technology has brought me to a limit of perfection.

One half of the white cottonball, the moon, suddenly appears in the distant sky above the rows of withering cornfields. The drawn angle of the descending sun prolongs the shadows upon the meadow. On the opposite side of the river the mirroring of the trees extends across the glassy background at once a deeper blue.