Sordid Sky

"this is a 
sordid sky," my father 
tells me. 

"when clouds  
come rolling in, 
and all the sky turns grey." 

i think of this, 
as we drive home 
from sunscreen 
and pine trees. 

from secret forts and
too much chlorine.  

how can the sky 
be sordid, 
when a single ray 
of golden sunlight dances 

through the clouds, 
settling upon the heavily 
shadowed crops? i 
wonder. 

have we entered oz? or a 
grand movie set, 
with a moving road and a 
motionless car? 

then why does the 
wind blow invisible melodies 
past my face, and 
pass by, as though with 
tattered angel wings, 

hanging low on 
it's back?