A light
is struck
in highland heights,
and the vista
sucks in
whispy smoke.
Tire-track clouds
distort, tickled
by the fleet
embrace of
such a
fickle vapour.
I pollute
clean air,
and lungs,
with my crime.
But
at the cusp
of mountain
and mist
I contemplate
home,
and how
I do not
miss it.
Not a bit.
My tongue
and senses sear,
and I,
at least,
am unclouded.