Clouds overhead make me wonder about their origins, their paths, their presence, here, now...

Who tells the story of these clouds?

Overhead, a high, pink cumulus,
And yet higher, a stratus stretches
Across this still higher September sky—
Who tells the story of these clouds?

Look up! Watch the winds shift them.
See their silvery edges!
See their shadows shift below!
Here! Such lovely, darkened light!

Which days’ suns drew up these waters?
Which chill or storm drew them down?
How many risings, how many fallings
Amassed them here, overhead, now?

What snows fell on which mountains?
What dews freshened which meadows
Or seeped into what desert lands,
Until surfacing where again, wet?

What rains formed which rivulets,
Brooks, streams, which waterfalls?
Which ponds watered shepherds’ flocks,
What rivers ran through which forests?

What waters coursed toward which seas?
Through which country-sides, towns, cities,
Through what nations, across continents?
And which winds blew eastwards, here?

Unable to scale every precipice,
At least I would know their origins
The lands in which they once fell
To steam, to rise, gather, here, now.