It has been my job to walk the roads these past 10
years, catching skies with my net. My brother would
give me diamonds to attract the sparrows, and the
grosbeaks, but I would use only shells and bits of
bread. We threw the bread onto the lawn when I was
a child. The starlings came, black and wet blue-
lavender flashing under, on their breasts.
The sky is endless. All the words spoken
by people, one’s aunt or one’s distant cousin, grapple
for a place in the clouds, or in the uppermost 
branches. But, unluckily, most are too heavy, 
jagged, like stones thrown across a pond, they skim,
then sink. The various hues fall each day and my net
scatters with peacock feathers and jagged stones. I do
not capture the skies. I do not erode their freedom.
What do I do with them? What do I do with my
beautiful skies, raining a thousand