She had a comfy name
for them; the con-trails
that floated patch-work like
above the valley floor most mornings.
She would pad out onto
the deck in her flimsy camisole
and boxers and trace the white
lines with the finger of
her left hand and pull on her cigarette
and sip coffee with her right.
It was like she was conducting
a symphony of sky, the sun
on a steady four-count percussive rise.
I admired her form and tidy armpits,
and watched the smoke plume
from her nostrils and dissipate.