Once I Was A Sky-Gazer



I used to notice so much in the sky,
airliners writing travelogues 
in white contrail ink, birds penning
songs in feathered bunting strung
tree to tree, castles and dragons
and here and there your face sculpted
in billowing vapor, even the poorly
cleaned blackboard ceiling upon which
crows would scratch their calls.

After sundown I’d watch the winter moon 
rise working hard to escape from the net 
of limbs the maples tossed skyward 
to no avail, watch the escapee glide 
behind windblown clouds, follow stars 
as they ran their courses as if the gods 
were twisting the dial on the firmament, 
and wonder if I was hearing the invisible
vee calling the cadence as it sky-marched 
from Canada to the Chesapeake.

I don’t sense so much anymore as I wander 
alone beneath that world flying above 
since my neck doesn’t bend back far enough 
to scan the great dome covering 360 degrees 
of horizontal wonder. But over there 
an empty bag of chips is chasing a squirrel 
up that oak, at dawn the neighborhood windows 
glow like apricots or 65-inch rainbows, and then
there’s this flat me-shaped guy who tripped me 
the other day when he caught me while I tried
sky-gazing again.

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