Photo by Jacqueline Dooley

the clouds don’t know I’m watching
they don’t know the sky
their billowy enigma is not a form of guilt

I wonder what it’s like to rest up there
high above the tiny troubles of passing days
just air and water —
holding the possibility of rain

I welcome the rolling darkness
harbinger of a coming storm
the promise of a torrent
ushered in by low rumblings
blanketing the sky with fevered dreams
that acknowledge a time
when ignorance burned all the altars down

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