Drawing the Birds Back Into the Sky

A poem

I don’t mean as in when you place your hands
the way your grandfather did, fingers just so

that when blown into ducks would fly
from reeds and sedges, and the assembled

hunters in brown canvas would raise their arms
to the call, and fire into the unsuspecting flock

of iridescent greens and reds, shimmering blues down the backs.

I mean as when you pick up your brush and flat board
and mix just the right emerald for the mallard

because you must do this, you must ask:

How much color can a palette hold
to hold up the sky?