Chinook arch

The sky
is more real
than the land
I struggle
to stand on.

Late-day blue
shows through
bright arcs
of brief sun,
blasted pale
by the wind.

Clouds
dance
shine
break
blacken
straining
to imagined heavens,
stepped terraces
of light
shining ragged
back from archedges
where gray clouds
mirror and echo
windworn
topographical lines
burnt
like life-sized maps
along the high sides
of this eroded coulee.

Around me,
false chords
on unseen
aeolian harps,
wind's lyres
crooning
beautiful
untruths.