Slow birds, post storm men.

Slow birds wing over a burnt copper sky,
against the wind they sing,
silhouette petals falling upward,
matching the black mountains back.

Clouds become towering furnaces of rare colour,
beyond description they, dominate the evening,
gifting the sun's dispersion into an unknown spectrum,
more precious than any hanging gem glimpsed

through a jewelers window frame.
The sky is on display, against the relief of our land.
It is hanging its colours in grand recognition of that
bag o' wind god, whose gone and left our tattered town.

The clattering boards of shipwrecked suburbia ease,
and seek now only to soothe our senses by
tapping this earth-bound nebula, drawing in
the cloaks of evening, once ruptured, now regal.

It's enormity shrinking to the golden orb
of a backstage sun, a parting gift,
as the world rolls over
descending into night.

Now the winds domain of howling rises up again,
over the mountains of the unseen night,
tearing the plumage of heaven to ribbons,
and dawn comes cowering, with cold ruffled birds.

Shiver into life now, and trace your arrow arc,
over our battered streets below,
and all I can do is look upon you,
as you fly, and as you go.