Life like cloud

I'v opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resemble a nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on the north. Other cloud follow, big and little and tiny on their match toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laught at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of greeen leaves--clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change disspate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings aspiration? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of the compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advise to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let's breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
Close my eye, drift in the sky with clouds. Here and there, dusky and bright, songs from the sky.