A Cloud
An old man with white hair and white beard is waiting for dispersal to become a cloud He thinks, “I am what is essential in this world. It is my life that brings this world to life.” He tries to imagine, not for the first time, what the world would be without him and fails Could it be like dark weathered rock without light? What would the alchemy of his absence yield? He watches a line of three cormorants, low to the water, black as periods, wing out to sea. He thinks, “Here I am on this jetty in this harbor. I’m looking out to sea and there is only now. I will become a cloud or whatever I become or I will cease utterly to be however vast is my sense of my own importance, how essential I am to the whole scheme of me.” The light is changing towards evening and the fishing boats are coming in. “I have always been fishing,” he thinks, “but only for myself, most elusive catch. My net has always been empty, for I have always had the sweet knack for eluding myself.” An old man with white hair and white beard waiting to become cloud feels a sudden chill 2010