Aeromancy, the Art of Sky Reading

The window clouds do roof-tiles

and ripples before they drown in sun,

become haze, innuendo,

but of what text?

The disciples of aeromancy,

whose book is sky, might know.

Cicero calls lightning’s readers

ceraunomancers. Etruscans

mastered the art—the Umbrian

mountains, humid in summer,

are thunderstorm paradise

like Appalachia’s high country.

Query a vein, neon-crocus violet,

pulsing. Does it imply a crooked

god’s descent or earth’s upwelling

spring? Whip-crack quick,

it’s gone: impermanence.

The crow, an augur, green-

blue-black cinder on wings flies by.

My eyes flinch; they tire reading

the Book of Omens.

Do you remember skywriters?

Single-engine planes whose smoke

scrawled white words—

Will  you marry me, Sue? Comet

cleans like lightning. Buy Electrolux.

An aeromancer’s dream:

the sky, plain-speaking.