Don Mager
Sky’s flattened cloudless platter slides its
short hour into the chromatic scale
of yellow’s pitches. Overhead spreads
creamy buttermilk. Lower west, it
edges toward pineapple. Then lemon.
Turmeric. As it slips away, its
eyes too piercing to smile, the half sun
glows. Against the cold, sky holds still in
its golden Beryl moment. It cracks
as vapor trails appear and spread. One
lifts from the airport at the city’s
far other side. The other streams down.
Their undersides burn. Rise of crimson
aims straight toward magenta’s steep descent.
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