Streak the sky like feathers
dipped in paint, keeping time with measure
and stippling the rhythm from bones
bending at the wrist and elbow.
A heated smoke conjures lift,
pressing up against the book ends
of dawn, and with a cooling tailspin
breaks into the aching scars of art—
carbon-copied depictions, reeking of sketches
and etchings, splattered sculptures
and watercolor washes of renderings
until unearthed as jewels
and bobbles and beads waiting to be
plucked and pieced into treetops.