There weren’t quite enough clouds
to stir up that crimson purple rose
blush sort of sky cauldron, and the
tangerine shine of rising yolk sun
was acceptable, at best. Cue more
birdsong. Cut the traffic din.
Maybe a crowflight smudge or two
to keep us humble.
And perhaps tomorrow,
if we might begin
an hour or two later?
would be great.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.