If you happen to roll over and look up
You may see what passes you by when
You are more normally squared to the ground.
There is the moon
In its comings or goings
Pale and ghostly blue
Dodging amongst the clouds
Which seem to sluice both north and south
Condensing and vaporizing
In a passing cycle-dance.
And then there was a tiny, downy feather
A lesser avian cloud
Donated by some passing Chickadee
Falling and rising
Pulsed by Brownian movement
With no sure destination
Moving into the great soupy sea
Of innumerable objects
Specks of dust so small
That may join and grow into sky spectacles
Of storms and rainbows
Crossing the heavenly horizon
And finally beyond the eye
And into the realm of dreams.