At the Lookout by John Grey

The lookout must be scenic.
The sign tells me so and it's been here since the 50’s.
And Autumn forests, from this height, are radiant enough
to light the darkest mood. The pastel smoke extends to lakes.
Cold air smothers warm and ghosts arise. Sun skis the slopes.
A cloud or two puff vexed they can't be blue.
A red-tailed hawk spreads his wings.
Thermals bear the weight of flying.
In brush below, warblers sing praises of what only they can know.
A hasty note to Paradise:  I've seen your blueprint.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.