A long line of cold dark blue
wedges the view of the eastern sky,
hovering just above the slight ledge
of pale light breaking into dawn.
Yard lights bite their way through
the lines of dark branches
rising from the barren blackness
and stretching thin lines above the fields.
Headlights of the occasional passing car
flicker stars through the winding fencerows
alongside Route 36 as it works its way
through the river bottoms near Blair.
Just above that hard smoky slate to the east,
the least bit of blue deepens
into slightly darker hues,
unbroken by smooth-edged fronts,
suggesting that these clouds
will move on their way,
leaving us with a day much brighter
than its beginning.
Regardless of forecast or foresight,
the cold of night or bleakness of day,
of what we think we know,
it is good to hold to hope
and to believe that the direction of our lives
is anchored to something
less fickle than views of weather
and the current affections of talk show hosts.