Sky is both diffuser

And its own prismatic piece.

Its job is Light,

Which goes and flows,

And touches here and there,

On bended frond or purling wake,

Or jalousie’s a-line skirt.

Receiving Light,

That little thing – the branch, the wave, the pane –

Lobs it fracteled left and right

Improbably to find

Corners still in westward gloam,

Walls facing yesterday.

A watcher looking east,

Seeing silhouette afire,

Bows at Light that seeks and finds

And rides on little things,

Surprising Light, physics’ star,

A Law unto Itself.