How low and flimsy the clouds tonight
resting scarce above the grasping hillsides,
having been granted the treasure of flight
they squander it, curious at these ants who scurry
the endless seas of grass and streets below
how carefree they seem, when to us
they live so slow - we rush east, ever east
to our doom, crying and thundering as we go
with the stars in reach, why must we linger so
low and heavy above the vineyards and prairies -
what did we want? was it just more time?
I had something I wanted to write about tonight that excited me. And on the way home, I thought of something clever I could include, but somehow I managed to forget it completely by the time I had prepared for sleep. I think I'll read some Agatha Cristie instead.
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