How little do we dream
on these sere days
when clarity above all seems within our grasp
that the shadows have crept past the noon mark
and that we have entered the twilight month
the dusk of the year.
Just cresting the horizon
a shade creeps toward the river’s mouth
like the tenth plague to take our first born.
Soon the sharp outlines around us will recede into obscuring haze
Mountainous clouds seep across the land,
to make the morning midnight.
Now we see for the first time
that the infinite blue is a veil
And we can never look at it again without remembering
the day the very sky lied to us.
(c) 2003 Travis Stewart
(Travalanche) 