Each time we move
the clouds overtake us.
Close up, each wisp passing the window
is clear as a tree.

From the sky the shallows
drift by like a calming story,
the parcels like famed marquees
at which the clouds feast.

The little burls of cloud
stop at the shore; over the sea, nothing.
But each peninsula and tidy island
has its tuft of halo-like cloud.

Time lurches overhead
with crushing indifference.
The clouds stain the ground.
Each shadow remembers its crop.

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