We drove our little piece of sky home and parked it in front
of the house. Blue as the day is long, that little piece of sky
shone at the curb beyond the brilliant emerald of the berm.

If a road is a river, our little piece of sky was a raft launched
for travel on a massive, mud-muscled surge between clouds
and the current. Wind rocked our little piece of sky, and rain

illuminated the curves. Our little piece of sky burned beneath
the sun, silvered in the moon, and sparked among the stars.

If there were a valley and a bay to reflect on, our little piece
of sky was a mirror and a mind made to reverse the vista.
If there were a forest, our little piece of sky hummed among

the crowns and limbs and leaves. If there were mountains,
our little piece of sky edified pinnacles and peaks. Aimless

aboard our little piece of sky, we allowed the flow to bear
us resolute in the direction we knew the future lay, no regrets
at a constant southerly compass, no reverence for the great

wheels on vessels toiling upriver toward the inexplicable,
and no fear for the imminent delta, or for the sudden gulf,
or for the broken, breaking sea that overcomes all that comes.

Get the new issue, Confrontation 119, Spring 2016.