the mood,
influenced by the slightest breeze
changes with each gracefully passing cloud
sunlight waxes and wanes
bringing complaints
from ray worshippers

Ray looks up from his newspaper, startled
“Leave me outta this,” he says.

returning to the electric sky
my mind replaces cumulus clouds
with floating sea foam
churning in the wake
children body surfing
right over the top of a resting
Sting-Ray

Again, Ray looks up more sternly
“Knock it off!” he yells.

casting my thoughts back to the blue
a new vision rises from the ether
of soft tones and melodic tunes
of a gravelly voice
and the most marvelous ballrooms

Ray jumps up and shouts,
“Do NOT make a Ray Charles stanza!”

sheepishly, I move on to a new subject