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Still.
Nothing but the wind and the flickering of streetlamps as 
they begin to die.
They throb and go out.

A glow spreads in the sky, flaring
up like a match in midnight blue.
Colors rise on clouds,
tossed and swirled by mythical winds.
A red sun peaks over the horizon and
patterns explode to
a symphony of light.

Curious displays of intangible jewels
hover, unseen, watching, over the sleeping streets before 
they die, to begin again
tomorrow.