Low clouds move in a hurry when a wind
is pushing them as if to sweep the sky,
so that the speeding, puffy shapes are thinned
till there’s just clearness and the day is dry.
You watch them through the window in their rush
and feel that there is something they are saying
with swiftly shifting shapes appearing plush
that go without an interest in staying.
We’re solid, unlike them, yet we are moved
as if by wind that’s of a different sort,
and where we go from here cannot be proved
though some have glimpsed and given their report:
we’re swept away like clouds, yet have a clue
that we’ll be safe beyond the sky of blue.
Mario A. Pita