Pink sky descending, yellow crow rising

Pink sky descending, yellow crow rising.  Towers, black, glistening, mute, needles of glass from the crushed dome of night fallen to earth, waiting. Constellations, old gods, having lost their homes, whirl and wail in a colorless void.  Now, red waters of darkened, fallen sky run in the dun prairie.  Native souls sing by water’s ragged edge, heedless of debilitating grief.  A tall blue sky stands firm inside the heart, filled by a relentless sun of warmth and grace.