The Cloud.

Unthreatening, with no describable shape, up-lifted by the waves of sunlight, driven by the winds of change - floats a cloud. Some days we like the weather and we say, "It is fine," and sometimes it is just so fair, and we don't talk of fair weather friends, as friends. And bad weather isn't really weather misbehaving, and good weather has nothing to do with being intentionally nice, as if we are deserving, or un-deserving. After all, we may have miscalculated its compatibility with what we are doing, or is it the other way around. And by the time any calculation has been made the cloud has changed it's position, or is it that it's position has been changed without any ado, no pardon or excuse me, you're in the way and no pleasantries, and the American says, "Have a nice day." like he's offering candy, and by this time the cloud has disappeared completely, and so has the sun - which reminds me of black-currant jelly, because it's dark and cool, and it's evening, and the day is no longer day, but night, and it's now, good night.

Copyright 1996 by Terry Miles.