The Forecast from the Beach                                                                                                                                                              Jonathan Mitchell

 

Mid-June and the cushion of the warm sand between the toes

Collapsing as each grain slowly drips to the earth.

 

Black tapestry above.

Nothing to see.

Only a few prevailing stars escaping the dark.

The last chance of light left in the day.

 

A cumulonimbus slowly marches across the night.

A leech on the sky

Ingesting all matter in sight,

Until all that was left was a hanging

Expiration of stars.

 

Maybe it was never intended for gazing.

 

I keep my eyes down.