I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings

I clutched my notebook furtively, its pages filled with emboldened, aggravated scribblings, a piece of Gogol's resting upon the soft grass next to me. I was perched upon a small rock nested at the lake's edge on an isle where the supports of the pristine, freshly painted bridge permitted enough land for a small stone bench and some tended fauna. I sighed listlessly, and tossed the notebook lightly towards the red ball point that I had used to butcher an earlier work. The troubling chords and sirens of El Manana faded slowly as I rested my head upon my hand and looked across the playful, glimmering waters to the neon and fluorescent lights of the buildings that made up a small shopping center. The sun had disappeared from view, but its effect was still felt upon the skin and in the sky. The atmosphere was alive with a rich blend of oranges and yellows, the sparse clouds beautiful shades of violet and pink. I slowly put a cigarette to my lips and lit it, but decided against blackening my lungs further for the moment, letting it hang there, burning slowly. Instead, I studied the various people around the pond as the inspired sound of the Main Drag rung in my ears. An elderly couple feeding the group of ducks and geese that had accumulated around them, laughing as their fair-haired grandson backed away from the growing group cautiously. A jogger struggling to keep up with his tiny mop-haired puppy. A young couple, the man with a baby strapped across his chest, the woman pushing a stroller with a gurgling infant. Time passed. The sunlight began to dim. The ash from my forgotten cigarette fell off in small, light clumps suddenly with a light, cool breeze that blew from the east. With a flicker, then a light hum, the lights that bordered the path around the lake came to life. The white gazebo that struck out impudently from the opposite shore was silhouetted by the luminosity of the signs that drew in and welcomed the wary passerby into the small strip of restaurants and entertainment. Realizing that the cigarette had long ago gone out, I stored the butt in my pocket. Beautiful Canadian geese followed by a few mallards floated listlessly by my rock, peering at me with disinterest. The breeze, its bite somewhat more chilly, again whisked across the lake, disturbing the small, purple flowers that bordered the lake. They waved at me serenely. For a short while longer, I watched as the vivid colors of sunlight gave way to the pale, lucid glow of moonlight and automobiles driving lazily past the gazebo, further illuminating its skeletal figure before the wind's chill forced me to move on from my place of quiet tranquility. I looked once more at the sky, at the quiet half-moon casting a fair light across a vagrant cloud, at the single star that managed to work its light past the burning luminescence of the sun's. I gathered my accursed writer's tools and worked my way up the stairs of the white bridge. I had come to this place looking for inspiration. I left with a reminder of how beautiful this city can be when you know where to look.
In any case, I suppose the trip was a successful one.