I spread myself out in linen swaths across the sky,
poof up in puffy white and grey masses, too,

in the in-betweens— I, a virtuoso
of sky painting. My mother, Earth, proud.

I bring relief and nourishment, but yes,
I can carry deluges that carry destruction

that carry death— but I carry nothing
in hatred— no matter what those tiny

dots from below, who point long lenses
at me, may think. Now, as for the winds,

who determine my directions
and ways, perhaps the dots

might be more leary of them—
or perhaps of themselves.