As I walk to my internship in the DC morning, there are no leaves. There are no colors turning around me. The Golden Triangle cleanup crews handle that quickly. I do not smell apples or pancakes or hear crunching leaves underneath my feet.
I smell coming rain, and the euphoria and dejection following an election, and cars. I hear cable news, the news I had long rejected, blaring from every screen. This city sleeps, but only because its maddened with self-referential power when it wakes.
There are few nods, few handshakes, few acknowledgments. But still I sing of the modern city, for even where I do not see Joy, He is there.