My sky was blue

It was my sky that day. I claimed it as my own in all its deep blue horizons.

I could not see a single cloud in the sky this past Saturday while picking corn. An occasional streak of a jet interrupted the clear blue but those dissipated soon. Maybe the hand of God wiped away each line as an abomination against the heavens.

The winds from the northwest did not have a hint of an autumn breeze as the sun warmed the hills and the rows of corn that I wanted to finish that day. It rustled the dry stalks and blew the husks into the fence as I picked and shucked the ears. She carried the sounds of the birds away to the south where my feathered residents are headed now and I look towards March next year for their return.

But the sky…

If I could have shared my sky, I would have. A visitor to appreciate the blue (or lend a hand in the work) or a conversation that the wind could not interrupt. I was the only person there and from mid-morning, when I first realized the sky, until I packed up in the evening, not a single cloud drifted by.

But I did share the sky with the turkey vultures that were lifted high, circling together before heading southward as well. I told them, “Not today,” as I always do when I see them. Someday they may find me as a meal but not that day.

I will share a sight from the cabin. The cottonwoods that shaded the roof through the summer are losing their leaves now and soon their skeletons will remain during winter’s cold with only the white pines and the cedars as my companions there.

But for one day, my sky was blue.

 Posted at Poets and Storytellers United: Writer's Pantry #89: Ghost Walk