Why is it we like looking at the sky?
In part, of course, we’re checking weather:
masses of dark clouds or a stormy haze
or breakthrough blue can alter a day’s plan.
But even after we’ve gotten the gist
of mist or drizzle, we keep looking up—
perhaps a habit copied from the Greeks
who used the heavens as a crystal ball,
foretelling future from the flights of birds
or leaves blown in the air and spinning down.
In the more recent past, astonomers
studying the stars predicted character.
And not counting the Moslems who look east,
and Buddhists whose third eye is looking in,
most other world religions aim their prayers
skyward where a Higher Power resides.
I’m no exception, I’m still suffering
from that residual spiritual tic
of looking upward for more certainty,
a dove descending, angels winging down.
But though I’m scavenging for the divine,
what holds my gaze are signs we put up there:
some child’s runaway kite, a jet’s brief glint,
light poles and traffic lights, the Goodyear Blimp—
the margins of our human drama where
we battle desperately for some control,
which we are bound to lose, the kite string snaps,
a patch of color sails into the blue,
beautiful in its insignificance.
We watch it as it dances out of view.