These clouds, their bellies glowing peach-pink as they travel east to the rising sun,
do not break a sweat.
They go to work joyfully. They love to get up early, rub the fuzz off their faces,
pull on their big felt boots,
then climb, no matter the weather, up the slippery dome, just to see their torsos gleam,
if the day allows it.
And they are okay, when in the span of three minutes they fade to grey, with their
windblown hair going wispy-thin.
They are just as eager to melt into the flesh of other clouds, and carry on,
in ways they never imagined.
They do not bother numbering their days. And they laugh and make faces
at those of us who do.
Having run the lifetime of clouds, they simply count themselves moon-lucky
to have felt the sun’s desire.