The clouds were quietly beautiful. Looking up, you saw them shifting north and east, a sly
little dance, and though you were in standing at the foot of Rockefeller's ice rink, tourists
jostling for a view, the air a tumble of foreign languages and sales pitches,
nevertheless you heard their shuffle across that canvas of sky, and you remembered
all those times it felt like nothing was moving, though of course it was,
how even inertia has a plan, its decibels like dog whistles. And you craned your neck
away from all that other noise, the taxicabs and garbage trucks whining like Harpies,
and eventually, the clouds were all there was, and you were all there was, too, pausing there
to wait and watch and listen. And you did.
And you did.
** This poem has sound. Below is a short video.