I think we must be deaf to the cry of the clouds
as they rip through the sky and tear over its blue hills;
they dive over the horizon and they bellow louder than thunder
and so great that even the moon trembles.
And when it’s all over and the crickets are gone,
the birds start to sing and the yellow brightens the pines.
They don’t forget the cry of the clouds.

(via say1)

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