Week Nine - Poem

Branches crowning skyline,
the skeleton hands grasping blue-eyed clouds,
standing beneath them on a grass penitentiary,
we walk, prisoners to the pine-air.
Bones scatter the dirt and debris of deer and elk,
the world a coyote's play-land and wandering,
while we skirt corners and run hard against the leaf-skins left behind.
We pause to the giant, lightning-struck oak and wait,
meandering eyes searching skyward,
we stand, in chains of blue and cloud-whisp.
They weep across our backs,
as we turn to wander home.