Fountain-head and source of rivers,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields!
- Henry David Thoreau
Summer often summons the inner-child, at least this one, and just the other day that child-me returned to reading the sky, shaping characters who strove across the horizon. It was a middling sort of day – warm but not hot, a few clouds by noon, a little sun, a breeze that couldn’t decide on direction – and I was idling by the sea. The small harbor across which I looked is backed by low ridges of traditional Maine pines, and the water’s ripples were particolored pastels. I set aside the book I’d brought down and looked out and up; the horizon’s few clouds were singular, each keeping pace with the slowest of metronomes; some cirrus etched the blue above.
Some time later, in a fashion similar to an old Western, cloud-figures (riders?) appeared atop the ridges. My mind supplied the insistent thrum of drums. Shifting then to Butch Cassidy, I said (perhaps aloud), “Who are those guys?”
Those guys continued their slow rise, looking down from their ridge – at me? I seemed the only one paying attention, which is another of the conceits when it comes to cloud-stories, and as they advanced I began to feel exposed. Their bellies darkened; they even “loomed,” a verb I usually cut from my vocabulary as overused.
Then, I began to wonder aloud. “What’s your story?” I asked, and then looked around to see if anyone else was near to hear. No one. That’s good, I said to myself, I can get on with my story, which had become one of four genies who spot a lone lounger on a seaside ledge…and then grant him…four wishes.
Let’s see, I mused, what, beyond the entertainment of Trump’s “candidacy,” would I wish for? And I drifted off into summer reverie.
Near rumbling broke the spell. The genies had vanished; actually they had coalesced into a into a …vast face that really did loom. As I watched, a forked finger of lightning tickled the ridge across the water. “Whoa,” I said aloud, said to self. Veils of rain hung from the cloud; day-ending darkness lidded over. Still, it was still. We all hesitated.
Then came the wind, bearing the story’s final sentence: Time to beat feet; time to get indoors. The cloud rumbled, yes, run, small fry.
Here, then, are the rest of those clouds. You’re invited to create your own narrative…or poem to match Thoreau’s.