Mackinac Sky


A fall morning on an island in a great lake
beneath heavy clouds, the layer we see
and more, unseen but surely felt, stacked
like pancakes on the horizon-rimmed plate
of the world.  Fresh wind dissolves the clouds
and the midday sky is a heartbreaking blue.
Then sunset, clouds building again, beasts
lumbering across a desolate plain, the colors,
a palette of Wedgewood, egg yolk, lilac and
rose petal.  One gull cries and wheels and banks,
how small we feel, a fleeting melancholy
resolving into a dark field lit by tiny stars.