The sky began to tilt,
a shift of light toward the higher clouds,
so I seized my brush
and dipped my little cup in the stream,
but once again I streaked the paper gray
with a hint of green,
water began to slide down the page,
rivulets looking for a river.
And again, I was too late—
then the sky made another turn,
this time as if to face a mirror
held in the arm of an outstretched god.
image: Sky, Christie B. Cochrell