Masonville

A chilling breeze of air skims the surface of a moonlit ocean.  It blows inland from the gulf.

It seeps through corn meadows, 
It tapers around old cedar trees.
The trees combust into the night, exploding with thunder,  dissolving and collapsing into a fiery soup.

Breezes are pushed up, vaulted high over  burning trees and into a cloud formation.  The fires go out as  clouds hover and mass, anticipating this new breeze, awaiting its arrival.
Thirstily, greedily, instantly, the new winds are absorbed.

Daybreak in the stratosphere,
Misty forms abound.  Cotton candy castles slowly rotate and glide.
Woolen capes flutter above long vaporous
gowns that twinkle and tremble with an irridescent splendor.
Such a frothy promenade,
Drifting westward, at a most stately pace.

Look
Down
Down, far below this feathery ceiling,
Where the black becomes blue
Where the blue goes to white
Where the white moves into yellow
And the yellow begins to heat
With all the promising, resonant oranges
of dawn.

It is there
Where the broad palms of the sun caress the cherubs’ cheek of earth
It is there you will find the town of Masonville.

People ready themselves for their morning routines.  Rollers are being removed from overworked hair.  Permanent-Press pants are being re-ironed.  Children are being overfed, then overdressed for school.
The rugged Cassidy Mountains are now ornamented by newly painted homes
Full of loving, hopeful, fearful families.

Floyd Logan has lived various places within the United States and currently makes his home in San Rafael, north of San Francisco. He would love to hear from, be mentored by, and network with other writers, and is currently seeking publication opportunities. Logan may be reached at floydlogan08@webtv.net