We follow the clouds the way nomads follow their herds. We're light færies who whisper to clouds, diaphanous spirits who keep the watery haze like herders would, like herders would their fluffy sheep.
It's said we need clouds to survive but in fact the clouds need us as much. We are the clouds and they are us. Mostly we drift and fly with the wind. Sometimes we can't be seen at all. Blue skies! we hear you say with smiles of comfortable joy but you don't know, you don't see that we are here yet, our gossamer vapors too distant, too widely spread for eyes to perceive but we are here, nonetheless. We are always here, pray it be so.
The wind shows us where we should gather, where in the world is calling, what channels to take but make no mistake for once in the while we steer our own course, sometimes to flow back, back facing the wind so that all are confused and vexed, perhaps to be rained upon, perhaps to see Father Sun.
Other times we pile one atop the other 'til off down below is the blackness of night and oh, the wind blows and oh, the wind calls for the hail stones to drop out, solid and piercing, for the boom and crackle of mighty gods 'midst buckets of rain in waving displays that whip past, grazing our looks, our smiles, our sense of completion 'til off we go quickly, off to the next calling, the winds say hurry it's this way or that.
And then we are passing, a mist on our trail, Father Sun set to casting rainbows for any to see, while the greening earth thrills to the great silent sounds, reaching for heaven, life in accord, separate together renewing again and again. And each time we sigh and sighing call out one more time, at least one more time. Send us a herding this time one more time. Once more for the rainfall, once more for the storm and once more to follow where the winds go.