Mistaken

The wind is slightly cool upon my skin
The day itself is warm and oddly clear;
I'd almost doubt the city that I'm in,
Except I'm certain how I traveled here.
There'd be no need to have a pilot steer
A plane across the sky were I still there,
Back where the seacoast is not quite as near,
Where lakes are large, and high skyscrapers dare
To pierce the clouds, and bid them to beware,
Back where the sky is orange at night. No, I
Must not be there. I'm here, where I can stare
Distractedly at mountains passing by.
The weather is the same, the place less so
And as I watch, the differences grow.