From my abode and
through the window,
I look up higher
than the tallest tree
where heaven commences
and my sight terminates
somewhere between earth and sky, at the boundary of
the real and the abstract where the giants draw the sun out of the earth and marvel at its glossiness.
With their arms of steel extended
and their hands encased in gold,
they hold the ball of flames over
their heads and huddle
under the warmth.
They gather the clouds to their torsos to shield their nakedness.
They look to the west
and plot their course.
They move their sluggish bodies
ever so slowly.
They cleave to the firmament
on their westward journey
until it’s time to go to bed.
They become sorcerers at night
as they drift through the solid earth with the sun still in their grasp.
They sink down to the devil’s quarters as they slide through the
They emerge early in the morn again with the devil’s blood in their nostrils and a plan to assemble the clouds and watch them release their fury upon the earth or whether to throw them away and smile, those giants of the sky, tyrants of the air,
voodoos in the wind, beasts of the clouds, keepers of the sun.