Great-Great Grandmother belonged
to an Indian tribe out West. It is said that when she was sad, she
would wipe her tears away with nearby clouds. When the clouds were
tear-filled, she would release them to carry her tears to Midwest farms
in the form of mild, summer rains.
When Great-Great Grandmother had
angry tears, caused by her drunken husband or foolish children, the
clouds that were filled with these tears sometimes spawned tornadoes.
regretted the death and destruction caused by her anger, but knew it was
not her place to break the cycle.
Evening Fog: A
Night was falling fast when
Evening Fog drifted in. He was a prisoner of the wind and the blazing
heat of the afternoon. His eyes were the color of denim blue skies, but
you could see he was haunted by a deepening gloom.
The smell of things both living
and dead mixed in the air, and thunder scattered crows from a nearby
tree. And there was Evening Fog, hot and dusty, silently ushering
evening into the lonely desert.
Young Clayton Cloud was BORED
out of his mind making the usual cloud formations: faces, animals,
monuments, flowers, zodiac signs, mythological gods.
If he had to “make” something,
he wanted it to be art, and modern art at that.
Clayton wanted to be Claes
Oldenburg, or Henry Moore, or Robert Holmes. And if a flower, then an
O’Keeffe flower; if a face, then a Cezanne face.
At the very least, he would be a
Jim Dine robe.
There aren’t many things clouds
despise, but the foghorn is one of them. To clouds it appears as if man
is attempting to take “the view from those who have as much right to it”
as anyone else.
A five-second, deep throated
blast every half minute throughout the night! Such arrogance from such
late-comers. Even before man crawled onto land, clouds were hovering
around the coastlines of the world.
And the loneliness in those
long, repeated groans: salt-faced men off deadly shoals, head--lands,
and outcrops of rock; worried wives and daughters; sons yearning to sail
off to false dreams.
For all the crap we daily
pump into the atmosphere, civilization is faced with yet another
terrorist: the cloud terrorist.
Looking very innocent with a
calm appearance, it descends and engulfs the upper floors of
Once most of a building is
nothing more than a bank of white--in movement so imperceptible as to
make icebergs envious--the cloud terrorist floats away with the upper
floors snuggly concealed within its white mass.
Reports of widespread
arrests of suspected clouds are beginning to emerge, but government
officials refuse to confirm anything.