White sky thin enough for the sun to shine through. The sound of a bear tearing at a log. A ripple of squirrel alarms as a hawk goes past.


  1. His lances pierce the membrane of the sky — his glowing lances
    illuminate the treetops; in the shadow of the forest
    bear is scavenging for food, down there a squirrel seeking shelter.
    (And Cuadra tells us, dreaming
    of a golden lake triumphant,
    hark to olden days of glory
    when the heroes’ steel swords
    were brandished back against the lances
    of the sun.)

  2. So funny. I woke up today, saw the uniformly white sky, and spent a minute or two trying to work “white sky” into something.

    1. Well, maybe you should try holding off and not writing anything for six hours as I did!

      Oddly, the sky’s remained that way for much of the day. Only now is it possible to discern a faint haze of blue.


    Days like this scare me into feeling
    something new would happen.
    After all, the ordinary is ordinary here.

    It is a country for old men. Quiet.
    But the growl of a bear tearing at a log
    can only mean some intruders are here.

    Squirrels scurry at the sight of a hawk?
    It does not happen often for arboreal
    rodents toughened after a winter’s kill.

    It is a quaint metaphor for the world
    out there, isn’t it? The strong get angry,
    the small remain fearsome. Both die, too.

    All told, this languid day will see the sun
    shine through the morning’s thin sky
    grown grey enough to render it empty

    as the city down there wakes up to one
    more bland day of strife and struggle,
    a pale sun forcing itself out of a blank sky.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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