I look up into the morning sky,
The blue interrupted by white,
The white of the clouds.
In the height clouds just flow,
Flow slowly and gently by.
But beneath those clouds are others
As if in a morning rush hour,
Hurrying over the sky
As if late for an appointment.
But strangely in their rush
They are going the other way.
If I were a cloud I would want to be
One of those clouds on high,
Gently moving against the rush,
Moving the other way,
To those below me.