Celestial Portents

This morning, all dawn-trace swallowed in the silver-grey,

there was a strange scene:

tiny fragments of white,

drifting down from the sky,

as though the heavens  were flaking paint.

Nobody knows where they come from;

nobody knows what they mean.



[Post-note:  This wisp of a poem inspired Commander Buckwalter to suggest a listen to this:
Metamora, "Morning Walk".]