She stands beside him
As the meteor cuts through the fog.
The grass is cold and wet and
They are tired and dreaming
But the sky is in flames.
He is fixated upon the bird,
Binoculars permanently to his eyes
And neck permanently tilted back.
He follows for several hours,
He looks up from his pile of books
Across the room.
She continues buried.
The bird flies overhead.
The path it walks has not yet been broken.
Thorns stick to its foot.
It looks up and smiles to be among the worms.
He mixes his paints
and creates the sky he sees.
Night falls and he takes a new canvas
And he mixes his paints again
and creates the sky he had seen.
He reads but does not understand.
The worst way to look up is to
Look down and not know it.