He could tell what sort of day it would be:

“Snow,” “Sun,” even “Clouds, no rain,”

by inhalation, it seemed.

Tweed cap pushed back,

yellow barn jacket buttoned to the throat,

he gazed beyond any solid object.

“How?” I asked.

“You can see it! Look at the vibration of

blue particles in the air.”

I could no sooner see

than scoop a handful of moon to my lips

or taste the sky. 

“Sultry summer,”

my husband lamented every august afternoon,

but he spoke of recent history

whereas our boy sang of what would come to pass.

I so relied on his facility for forecast that I forgot

what not knowing was like, how cold a day could be. 

When my son had surpassed my height,

he asked me what the day might bring.

“But, my darling, I have no skill for augury.”

“Look,” he said,“at the air you don’t breathe.”

One afternoon in stocking feet,

he ambled down the walk

and shimmied up to his old perch in the tree.

“Do you see it now?” I called from the front porch.

“I honestly no longer know how, Mom.

It was a gift. We used it up,” he said

and skittered up three more branches.

“You try,” he sang. “It’s also in the breath you exhale.”

And as I gazed into space,

he climbed higher again, another two branches,

and flew away.