Skywriters

A little turtle pauses on the path, still as stone. He’s made it half way to the grass. 
A sunflower arches like a branch, back-bends over the grass, and waits
for the turtle to scuttle… just a few more inches. The sky looks like a
tombstone. Apollo, why so slow to draw the sun across the sky like a hand
on a paintbrush shedding red across a canvas? How long must I wait for dawn?
Have your horses run away, and are they running still, through the gray 
that looks like marble? And do they etch their footprints all across the rainscape?