I am reteaching myself to read the clouds. The August air is thick and sticky, turns my lungs into tired chewing gum. Standing on the wharf packing my pipe, I listen to the whispers of the old men in my memories. They remind me: the weight of the clouds, how they crawl across the sky. Fast or slow or in-between. I am reteaching myself to read the clouds. Geography matters. River valleys are different than coastal towns from big sky country. I can close my eyes and see the southern Arizona desert, the layers of suspended dust, the haze of heat bouncing off cement, the urban lights. Storms that come up from the south follow the river like a man in search of a lost limb. August is a haze that’s moved in a week early.


that cool breeze
a tease portendimg
the lightening