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  • Disguised with a blanket of sulphur--the sky;
    the air cradling the musty whiff of sweat and frustration
    accompanied by an orchestra of horns.

    Ah--the pleasant cacophony of horns.

    It began as a hesitant shuffle,
    like one who has been stripped of all direction;
    an infant enclosed in a maze.

    And oh, how it built up; gained momentum,
    those little tiny elephants, they never tire.
    How rapid their galumph became,
    like a bat within a circular room.

    As pedestrians trudged home, irritated that
    the elephants were stampeding on such a Friday--
    I saw no such thing.

    No such thing at all, my friend.

    For the elephants, when they charged into the ground,
    a child cried out; rubber wheels flying on bitumen
    the harmony of voices and the squelch of footsteps.

    I have never been so aware.

    For the plants were bathing, and the pavements were washed,
    all without human effort.
    The frustration, what a misunderstanding;
    the little tiny elephants, what a blessing!

    But their dominance diminished,
    their speed slacking
    as they collected between pavement and road.
    The little tiny elephants--
    so they galumphed no more.
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