The sun is at its lowest,
But there's a word for that.
I cannot cast a view on the the guy,
His face forever masked with the hood.

From the shadows, he emerges,
Across the overpass, he disappears.
The colour of his shady sketchbook matches my eyes,
The undeniable urge to spill out the random.

The ducklings make an awful sight,
Too unpleasant to hear and see.
Yet the teen with the hood watches them,
With such awe in his tired eyes.

The coffee stain on his sweater,
With a hint of sadness in his demeanor,
At my lowest or highest point of life,
I get reminded of the hoodie solstice.