by Robin Dawn Hudechek
The cloud is a dog, paws tucked under his chin,
nails curled above the mountain pass,
and another cloud is a maiden.
The dog rolls on his back and the sun
illuminates tufts of fur
the girl’s hand bends to touch
and can no longer reach.
Fur spikes up in hard outlines of light.
Across the mountain range
and an expanse of blue,
a white vein of lightning pulses.
The sky is a leaf curling upward
and backward into dusk.
Robin Dawn Hudechek received her MFA in creative writing from UCI. She has two chapbooks: Ghost Walk, The Inevitable Press, 1997, and Ice Angels, published in IDES: A Collection of Poetry Chapbooks, Silver Birch Press, October, 2015. Robin lives in Laguna Beach, CA with her husband, Manny and two beautiful cats.