Clouds are a peculiar thing.
They shape and bend
at the mercy of the wind.
Sometimes we see something
in those puff balls.
See something no one else can,
before the winds erase it from existence.
I once saw clouds
shaped like something magnificent!
It was like Rousseau painted the sky.
Images of lions leaping to kill
and tigers tracking their prey
and broken helicopters spiraling toward Earth,
Littered that big blue ocean above me.
Like sea foam cresting waves.
Swirling paint in the sky
broken up by the wind.
The tiger stretched until it was no more
The leaping lion
obliterated by the wind.
Like a private gallery
showing in the sky.
Those images will never be seen by anyone’s eyes
but mine.
I will never again
see those painting in the sky.