Nova Scotia sky, tent of Acadia sailor's skullcap larger than a moon or an urchin's tidewall you've invented a new blue more precious than polished sapphire ringed in crystal. Your clouds are touchable, canescent, kind. An itinerant dream weaver plucks the lamb's wool of another, softer galaxy preparing to spin star threads on your forehead. Your dimensions startle the naked eye as if ordinary seeing were suddenly not enough. A crow's caw, trenchant as my firstborn's finest cry generates the blood to well up and sing lovesongs to stones, to become one with the inland river's hum to the sea. Your parabola encompasses nations under my skin. It does not suffice to speak or breathe beneath you. Your orange eye like an oracle, warns of the danger in habits. Nothing but the mystical will do.