Next time you’ll notice them
Those gargantuan behemoths
Giants of the sky
Floating over us
Being propelled by the tumultuous wind
Cruising with the flow
Not caring where they go
These providers of rain
These artists
That make
Or break the scenery
That paint the sky like a canvas
With cool, wispy brushstrokes of grey
They paint their pictures
A lion
A house
A map to those that have the imagination to see
The ability to suck up life like a straw
While enjoying every
Last
Drop

However, this fresco
This magnificent piece of art
Exists merely in the present
The
Fragile, temporal, and ethereal
Present
It is freighting how they can impose themselves on countryside
How they can seem as everlasting as a castle
As stoic as Stonehenge
And crumble within the hour
Their brushstrokes
Smeared by the shrieking gusts of time
All the while
Not knowing their own mortality
So they carry on
Being omnipresent in the heavens
And basking in the
Radiantly warm rays of the sun
But like most artists; they have a temper
The skies darken
The sun is blocked out
And while the artists are normally peaceful like priests
They can wield lightning like crusaders
Vengeance
Flashing, striking, and arcing
Across the sullen sky
And then
Before you know it
The skies clear
And the clouds dissipate into nothing

Oh bearers of relief
Of judgment
Benevolent givers of shade
And artists of the sky
Where will you go?