The grayish blues scratch and scrape
across the evening sky.
I can’t help but be distracted,
collectively, the cicadas sound like an alarm;
warning me of the approaching storm.
The orange and pink light
defines the edges,
and some idealistic amateur snaps a couple picts
before the nighttime rain.
While I’m shaping the imaginations
of children watching lambs and lions,
two eccentric lovers see the mermaid
I sculpted after some birds fly through it.
But the sky is becoming darker.
I don’t feel like coming back down.
Too many people are inspired.
I’m content, floating up here,
occasionally waving, to friends
who had high hopes of careers until
they became chained by pregnancy
while family’s are cemented to the ground
by debt and foreclosure.
I’m better suited up here,
despite the warnings. I like the wind
blowing through my hair.
It feels like Mother Nature is caressing me.
But the cicadas and a few friends
are calling, telling me
lightning will strike me down.
But the truth is
I’ve been wanting, waiting for that to happen
since I first began flying.