A Car Ride

"The sky slides slowly along,
Its clouds like a great stone wall
Etched with snow-filled cracks
And stained with indigo oils
Along the edges.

The last lingering glow of daylight,
A river of golden copper,
Underscores the solemn shroud
That sits like sackcloth on the
Shoulders of the sky.

And at the pinnacle peak of
That gray sky plane, a flare
Of white creeps along like frost
That clings to the car windows
In the cold.

The darkest shades of the sky
Spread far and wide like the feathers
Of some great and terrible bird
Of the night, chasing the sun
From her nest.

The gray cloud curtain holds
Bumps and bubbles like the
Laminate sticker that just won't
Hold its grip to the edge of the
Foggy glass.

A burst of orange on the horizon!
The high hilly clouds still hold
The daylight on their crests like
Crowns of fire, jewels beyond the
Wealth of kings.

The fiery hills peek out from
Amongst the deadened gray.
Their wispy influence stains
The sky with flakes of bronze
Warmly bright.

The burning snow of those highest hills
Puts to light all the blues and
Deeper hues of the granite vault.
The snow-tops burn quickly, like
Most fires do.

A gash of white streaks across;
Like a steam-filled crevice, its airy
Contents reach higher than its
Source, and inch into every nook that
They can find.

The darkest blues raise like a wave
Their presence, but halt their
Advance and linger without one
Word. They are fearsome, friendly,
And silent.

One great and dark cloud,
Like a spot of ink, hovers over
As a hooded specter lost in
Thought, its song made still by
Its hesitation.

The night now comes and colors all
With coal tinted blue; hinted through
The smokey puffs, the meager moon,
Like a headlight in mist, offers its
Blurry light.

And in the distance, beyond the edge
Where the night crawls and claws
Like a shadow across the ceiling,
The golden ribbon lingers just beyond
Billowy mountain tops."

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009