The sky, like a great fish
swims west toward sunset--
the mottled clouds
silver-gray fading into blush
the color of salmon swimming home to spawn
impossible sequins stitched across the great arc
There is no wind, and yet:
the great belly of sky
turns and wraps itself
around the far horizon,
swimming to blue hills--
seeking secret meadows,
dark tarns--
silent,
still.