Zero degrees, but the sun shines brightly 

The city has a white, angelic glow

I sit on my perch, thirty-one floors above it all.

Exhaust billows lazily out of most buildings

Creating a surreal scene that reminds me of a puzzle 

Or maybe a postcard.

A single jet is visible high above the city in the southeast

Its trails are the only disturbance 

In an otherwise perfectly blue sky.

A chance I set perfectly in my line of sight 

Framed perfectly by the east hills 

A sign of perpetual progress 

I sit here and stare, captivated

Chunks of time fly by as the scene grips me 

This is home, and it is beautiful.