A white plume bisects the sky
linear vapor between sun and moon.
Purple baguette clouds pepper the west
silhouetted by the sun’s parting rays.
Eastward the moon high and brilliant-
tonight’s beacon.
Inaudible are the jet’s engines
yet palpable it’s trail
a stark outline of beauty on both sides.
As dusk cedes to dark
much like the sky
I don’t feel so blue.
The Bird's Song 