The horizon is a smudgy pastel of grey, orange,
and deep indigo edges, like when you lift the tiny
paint brush, water dripping down the plastic shaft
over your child-hand, and you sweep it in wonder
and frustration over the plain white non-sky of paper,
a single sheet torn from a cheap sketch pad bought
at the market, told to make it last. I wish I could make
this early dawn sky last, keep it pale and indistinct,
ahead of the bright blues and whites, the predictable
streaks of clouds and chattering birds. I like the simple
starkness of roofline, of chimney, of light-pole framed
by watery paleness. I want mystery, not clarity. Street
lamps wink out, and day approaches. My troubled
thoughts rise with smoke from a neighboring chimney.
Photograph by Jes Davis
Smoky Quartz 