The powder blue heavens are streaked with white brushstrokes.
The skywriters are marking the sky from the cockpits of their enormous pens.
They are curt editors, slashing the horizon in front of me,
Crossing out erroneous clouds.
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I press my forehead to the window, craning my neck to see how their story ends.
The mountains are tucked under green blankets and sun shushes them to sleep.
The skywriters turn back home for the night,
Their crisp lines relax, wisps loosening into the wind.
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The motion of the car lulls me, rocking me into a dream.
It is a memory returning to me in the darkening sky.
I am jumping waves, my legs kicking up sand and saltwater
My chubby hands holding fast to the fingers of my grandfather.
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I wake too quickly, my fisted hands gripping nothing tight.
I lift my face up, peering through the windshield.
The moon lifts it's milky face to meet mine.
It pulls the tides, erasing today's page for tomorrow's story.
