Clouds At Play

Strands of soft gray cloud drift aimlessly
through corridors of pine trees
dressing the slopes of a wounded
mountain, scarred by flames
from forgotten embers,
residue of recklessness.
Wisps of almost-white cloud
tumble in friendly updrafts,
no  rush to be anywhere in particular,
no destination.
A hide-and-seek game among
clusters of needles,
thin ribbons of white
gauze wrapping themselves
around plump branches,
joy cut short by the shiver of 
a branch at the top of a sentinel pine,
the tallest tree that could see
beyond the others and
sense approaching change.
Wind!  The tree called out.
Wind arrives!
In moments trees sway,
limbs touching limbs as wind
rounds up her children
and guides them up and up
until they disappear into
somber layers of brooding sky.