The sky hums low in a whispered tune,  A breath of dawn in shades maroon.  Yawning wide with golden streaks,  She rubs her eyes, her voice still meek.  The sun-tip brushes—soft, divine,  Like honey dripped from nature’s spine.  She wakes in hues of pink embrace,  A blushing child with a sleepy face.  Midday strides in robes of blue,  A king who reigns with a steady view.  The clouds applaud with hands so white,  Clapping, snapping, feather-light.  Then twilight waltzes, cloaked in red,  A dancer fierce, her gown widespread.  She sweeps the world in fiery swirls,  Twirling, whirling, flames unfurl.  The night arrives—a silent sage,  A poet lost upon the page.  His cloak is black, yet speckled bright,  A canvas drowned in pools of light.  The sky’s a stage of endless art,  Each hour plays its moving part.  It sings, it laughs, it shouts, it cries—  A living soul within our skies.