This morning’s sky

Looks as if

Saul dumped a

Bag of cotton

Balls there with

Long white streaks

Like a cats whiskers

The tree tops

Glow like big

Nightlights yellow and

Green like early

Autumn gourds spindly

Trunks shoot in

All directions like

The spokes of

A bicycle as

Birds gab and

Rumor about chill

Here this morning