My bowl has horizons in every direction.
The little plane, a personal tour.
I soar to rare heights.
I see my valley from above.
The darkness ,a purple base.
The lighter sky, a pearl rim.
In the west the Hunter's Moon,
full and a rare time blue.
The sun below the horizon,
a pimple of red lava marks its eastern bed.
Tracks and freeways are the zippers
that bind my bowl.
Headlights still slide along the zipper.
Canals and rivers are shiny ribbons,
packaging to celebrate the day.
Geometric patches of green, brown and grey,
a child's three crayon map.
The sun ball turns to bright yellow.
Ugliness below washes out.
Tin roofs diamond for the moment.
Foothills moonscapes.
The blue moon turns to daylight white.
Above all this the drone of the engine,
a sound pump
for isolation and contemplation.
Going to work.
Just another day.
A student passes orals.
Champagne and understanding.
Problems related and shared.
Feelings strong and happy.
The sun sends long shadows
in late afternoon.
A slight breeze kisses my brow.
The heat of the day unnoticed
as shadows play.
A smaller moon rises
and night finishes the story.
For a moment I have seen the view of heavenly host.
What can tomorrow do
to match this perfect day?