A SIGN
It doesn’t rain much, red skies rare at dawn
with snow on Redwood Mountain peeking –
overseeing rows of ridges folded into the creek
like an accordion greening, left on its side beneath
a new battalion of clouds pressing eastward,
blushing scarlet off the barn roof, the autumn
sycamores and this keyboard for an instant.
Quickly science fiction, I am an alien awash
in ever-changing hues of crimson, just arrived
on a cloud, glowing now like a light bulb
as the sky turns gray. ‘A sign,’ I say silently
to myself, ‘for any damn thing to happen!’