From Atop the Hill

Photo by Colin Watts on Unsplash

The faraway ice ribbons of transatlantic jets
Chase the sun behind the ridge
As it dyes the air the remembered color of my dog roses.
The clouds are briefly incandescent,
Their bottoms glowing like overheated fry pans,
Before the fir trees steal the last of the light
And the homes down in the valley hug themselves in the coal-colored evening.