The clouds crowd for but a glimpse of the earth bound below, but they cannot linger long upon the sight for on they are driven by the rustling winds, always to the cloud pens and then to the cloudy arena where they are prodded out and the four winds bid to herd the clouds through their vastly expanding heavenly ranges. And so for some they are sold to storm and thunder to cast asunder those below, while others are twisted and branded into tornadic fury even worse. Yet a few, a very few escape from the herd and hiding by morning concealed in the lingering fog, stay long and gaze upon those below, shading and enveloping them from the sun that comes, exposing them to the rustlers of the wind.
Be kind to the clouds that gently speak with you by making all sorts of words for you to decipher. They once were the fiercely driven hurricanes tearing over the open ranges.
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