Stalking the Wylie Vicuna.

Coalescing dew distills to frost on the anonymous rear windows of the office-bound hoipolloi in the fog-shrouded roseate pre-dawn light.

Breath condensing to isidioid stalactites in my mustache,
rhythmic crunching of my boots on the frozen turf,
scanning the nearly barren asphalt planes,
quietly whistling a forgotten tune.

Seeking equanimity.