Highway papers scatter the road.
Yesterday’s news pressed against
the inside of a factory fence. The sky
is rose red. The air is moist. There are
no songs but the wind gusts a tune.
The clouds resemble casual caring hands,
resting like sleep while building silently into
towers over a landscape full and willing.
A light mist swirls over everything like
crushed diamonds falling into open space.
It is a day of weather. A watering. A time to
replenish.
Roger Singer 