Sunday morning, while picking up the New York Times
in its wet wrapper from the fresh rain on the driveway,
I looked up.
Steel gray clouds stretched from horizon to horizon
muffling the light song of the sun.
By noon the clouds, disturbed by wind, thinned,
broke up, took on distinctive shapes
gray whale, gray wolf, gray horse.
By evening all had shifted again.
Now the clouds were gone, leaving
a empty night sky for the moon to sing
its borrowed song for however long now is.
revised