Driving into a perspective,
we observe the fretwork of cloud
revising itself to flatter
abstracts of mist and occlusion.
This could be a plein air moment,
if we had the skill to capture it.
We’ve just unloaded our trash
at the recycling center that now
in this era of pandemic
no longer recycles anything
except tired old manuscripts
donated by failed old writers
sick of hearing their shelves creak.
In this fading summer afternoon
of dusty double-locked storefronts
and asphalt cruel as lava flows,
we realize how lucky we are
to glimpse this undulating sky
at its most kinetic moment.
We park while I wield my camera.
Not that a photograph matters—
only the living texture
can properly ruffle our skins.
No technology can capture
such remote yet absolute presence.
Wordsworth went pantheistic
over such an inscripted sky,
but we lack his faith in spirit.
No, a good painter might anneal
this scene forever, unless
storm clenched the artist and daunted
all the most vital aesthetic.
Such art-events happen daily,
but not to us. We drive on,
slathering for iced lattes
we’ll drink under cover
in metal chairs on a verandah,
posed in our simplified mode.
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