Over by the horizon line in the blue air they are full,
robust, and look as if they were painted there. At that time it would seem that
there could not be a storm or any sort of trouble. The trees come up and up
with valor, with confidence, and try to marry the bottommost parts of the
interesting white artifacts. But there are other times,- say in the late
afternoon when I was struck by ground lightning which came up through my foot
and exited out the back of my leg,- when the clouds conspire, lose all ashen facades,-
and show dark, grey, even black parts. Then the rains, the winds, the thunder
and the former, - the white cumulus, - are a distant memory.
At other times
these sky-way poems and stories stretch out long ways and it is difficult to know
what to think of them. Are they benevolent? Are they other? Are they anything
at all? Then they can dissipate altogether- there they go- going and going-
like sugar released gently on a leaf, - trickle, melt, and leave to some other form
or the void abyss source itself. Yes clouds. 
The dogs, excited, healthy and spry, run
incredibly fast across the fields but what is above? The clouds. If the dogs
pause, what hovers and watches from the heavens during their calm time? Clouds.
And if they get a proverbial second wind, and one rises to chase after a
sound, a wind, a rustle of leaves or other, while the second one follows suit- what do is in the distance most of
the time,- the back drop of a wonderful pastoral scene? Clouds!
How could we have a grouse with the clouds ever? How could we
make stories and poems
without them? How would it be possible to really take a
picture or paint something without the wonderful background they afford? Think
of them in fastlly sped up motion-as in those nature documentaries, or independent art
films where they race across the sky, and change form, color, and therefore mood.
Clouds.
Clouds and clouds and clouds…
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