Clouded Vision

[Day 4 of the 31 Days of Poetry]

Brisk Clouds on the move, in the haze of a late afternoon sky.


They know something. 


Overheard some passing birds as they slipped 
in and out of flying formations, following ancient 
migratory patterns etched in their hollow bones. 


A secret message, written in code, hastily scrawled 
in the entrails of a private jet. ferrying some unnamed 
tycoon to the next stop on the checklist of his unending greed. 


The Barometer. It never could keep anything to 
itself, cresting and collapsing in slavish rigor to the 
melodramatic tyranny of local weather. The bi-polar 
pied piper, if the Barometer knows anything, 
even the hint of anything, it wouldn't keep quiet.


Whoever dropped the dime, the Clouds 
clearly know something. They're slipping 
away in small packs, huddling close 
to one another, safety in numbers; 
the sky ain't no place for a lone wolf. 


The Clouds look ruffled and unfluffy. 
More than a hint of darkness skittering 
through their porous curves. You don't 
want to rile Clouds up. They don't handle 
stress very well. One minute they're peaceful 
and serene, the epitome of soft marshmallowy 
innocence; sometimes they'll even play charades 
if you ask nicely. But if Clouds even get an inkling 
of lack of interest they suddenly see betrayal and 
they will lash out viciously; an injured nimbus badger. 


Clouds have Borderline Personality Disorder.


If we could get Clouds on the couch, 
in some semi-darkened safe room 
of therapeutic healing, no doubt we 
would hear tales of abandonment, 
you know how that water vapor says 
it wants to be with you forever, how 
it loves you, and then it just disappears. 


Poor things. No wonder Clouds are so twitchy. 
They try so hard to win affection, too. 
Tell Clouds some news and they'll exclaim, 
"You can't be Cirrus!" (Clouds love puns, 
but you knew that. Even if you didn't know it, 
now that you know it, you realize you always knew it.)


They're moving faster now, the Clouds, 
racing to join a super-gang, so desperate 
to be part of the group, and not alone. 
I don't like the looks of that new crowd one bit. 
They are dark and twisted; into the most shocking things. 
(See, I made a pun too. I would get on well with Clouds. I understand them.)


They know something, those Clouds. They always do. 
That's why it pays to watch the skies. 






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