15 11 07

swords into ploughshares

a gunmetal sea

& when I write grey skies I think of Gertrude Stein. These are not grey skies but curling greyladen clouds, formless in whisps & solids, changing their formlessness as wind drives them. Light & dark according to density, the load of moisture they hold, that they are. Nothing recognisable, as different from yesterday’s grey sky as the shapes clouds don’t become. No trees, faces, monsters. They’re all down here, where here is. All morning behind that grey a reverberance above cloud tops; another unseen jet rolling over the sky, rumbling the hills here. I’d thought the manoeuvres & ravening aerobatic displays over, that air force jets had ended, another seasonal event, going into underground hangars like the woodants, to sleep & dream of becoming. But this is probably a last summer visitor who can’t wait to catch his fellows in their fall migration to the middle east, the mountains of Afghanistan & plains of Iraq