What the sky wants

What the sky wants is what the birds swallow as they plunge wantonly into the April hum, splashing green gold across the treetops, an ancient fire launched ninety-three million miles to this sapphire suspended impossibly in infinite silence, a fire some microscopic portion of which lands on these yearning spires of grass, and me. And what the sky wants is what it gives, simply joy as useless and innocent and extravagant as the indiscriminate blue I find in my arms.