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
