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 ranches. 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 faces?