When I use my imagination,
and concentrate really hard,
I can pretend that the haze
from the nocturnal city lights
are pale cousins to their dancing
counterparts from the north,
and that here they lay low.
As the wind rustles the branches
of the palms in the foreground
I pretend that they are still
and the lights are moving, instead.
I know this is silly,
I know that it is only my imagination
for the air is too warm for a dance;
but I pretend, anyway,
and I never, ever, whistle at them.
Just in case.