odd old miscellaneum from a time of passive searching (what the hell?) II

And the rain battered your balloon
as it climbed for the clouds.

And the sun blasted me into dust.
I reformed after dusk.

As the sun rolls over the hill,
you ride my horizon.

At a distance a dust cloud
looks like a dust cloud,

sounds like a bell,
and smells like the dew

on the ground.

A call to action:  look around.  
But we don’t suggest you look down—

you just might glimpse
your shattered reflection.

The shade of a tree
depends on the breeze.

The shape of the breeze
depends on what’s in its way.

If you choose to stay,
you’ll see the changes roll on one by one,

each taking its little toll.

Are you going to fold?

So, you’ve played your last hand,
and you’re making your last stand,

standing at an upstairs window,
watching the cargo ships in the distance making their

last voyages of the year,
apathy arguing with fear.