Cloud inventory

Nine cumulus,

one contrail dissolving

into something

that used to have a name.

A heron going nowhere

in particular,

with the patience of things

that already know where they are.

I count clouds when I can't

count anything else.

When the numbers I need

refuse to line up.

There is something reliable

about clouds.

They change but they don't pretend

they're not changing.

They drift and shift

and come apart

and no one calls that failure.

No one asks what happened.

This is what I have

instead of answers:

nine cumulus,

one heron,

one sky the color

of a thought

I haven't finished yet,

a blue that isn't quite blue.

I lie in the grass.

The grass is slightly damp.

I don't move anyway.

I let the damp come through.

Above me everything

keeps changing

without urgency,

without explanation.

I take notes.

Nine cumulus.

One contrail.

A heron, gone now.

One answer that might not be

an answer.

One afternoon that is

enough.