In the ending of a somber day’s chill,
we sit with friends at a hill slope restaurant,
see gray and trees out the window to the east.

During dessert, I see the least bit of pink
kissing the clouds
and know that this passing front
must have broken up a bit off to the west.

As we walk out to where the car is parked,
a low fringe of red
burns around the bark of hardwoods along the street.

Heading west on 36,
I cannot keep my eyes from fixing on the sky:
long threads of red and pink
bleed along the lines of clouds,
incredibly smooth streaks low to the earth,
streaming northward above the thin strip of clearing.

Passing over the bridge,
I see the long low ridge that rims the river,
miles of woodland etched black against the sunset.

Growing from the south,
looking like the great plume of an ostrich,
soft wisps of white reach for miles,
gentle curls stroked over a dozen shades of blue.

In the wonder of this view,
in the warming embers of this glorious glow,
how could I not know
there must be a God

who is both Love and Beauty?

H. Arnett
9/14/12