Taking our turn here —
trying not to lose our touch
under tender skies.

There’s grief in these trees,
clouds of the day still showing,
stars just coming out.

Up two hours ago,
I was here with Orion,
moon under the trees.

August will give way,
everything at its peak
will start to fall down.

In my head all day,
I remember the dawn sky —
that brief gentleness.

In this darkest time,
up before dawn, still thankful
for ecstatic skies.

The sky has been scrubbed,
songbirds are back to singing —
worms on wet pavement.

The day comes in pink,
orange glows behind the trees,
the sky, ecstatic.

I’m always waiting —
light comes eventually,
changing everything.

Day after solstice,
winter sky pulls over us,
cold clouds of all kinds.

We’re swallowed by it —
the clouds making a bright sheen
on the wide river.

Clouds in the river,
all of our words disappear
and go to nothing.

Swans float in the sky
over the September field,
the grass labyrinth.

The sky telling me
that September is coming,
I must change again.

Just the sound of bees
doing what they love on earth,
keeping us alive.

The ecstatic clouds,
the ecstatic dune grasses,
meet well in the sky.

Pink sky at daybreak,
a song sparrow lives nearby
and sings all day long.

The loops and chatters—
sky and trees full of Robins,
we enter their woods.

Mackerel skies all day,
like a sheet of paper, drawn
steadfast, defiant.

Blue valley of sky
above the humming forest—
and our lives today.