Painting the Sky

I am here 
beneath 
the rust,  
painting 
the soft skies 
with the tips 
of my fingers, 
wedged 
between 
river 
and hill,  
watching 
through 
maple leaves 
as thin 
as insect wings, 
the stained glass 
through which 
the wind 
dries, 
ochre and purple,  
behind the cloudlight, 
and it speaks to me 
in wildfire smoke 
and birdsong, 
the paint chipped at the corners 
where it has dried too fast, 
covered 
in dawn dust 
from the place 
where the sun 
rises, 
dark, 
behind the mountain.