A Sunday late night scribble

Noone can control the weather,

but the birds seem to be quite invested.

The clouds are doing their part-

hurting each other and apologizing 

so quickly it is almost like a joke.

I want to be a privy to the kind of air

that doesn't move, but instead 

beckons you to move around it, like

a rock or a broken heart.

If I were a bird, I would be one

no bigger than an eyelash, discovered

too close to the end to name.

If I were a cloud, I would accept

the apology, such a good joke it was.