Black forms stream across
a gray morning sky. Sagging
clumps of yellowed leaves have
only brown companions. Rain
drops into downed
leaves making dark, curved
bowls.
A gray black band huddles
against the earth's edge,
forbidding entry. Above the
wall, a clotted mass of black
breaks off. A blue sky eye is
torn in dark, moving folds.
Could this, in the language
of clouds mean, hope lives?
