(The last stanza, by itself, is a haiku)
Clouds interrupt uniform blueness in my field of vision, claiming … territory? With dark grey bases and white bodies. Their sun-illuminated tops are sharply defined, like the gray tree-covered ridges below. Floating mountains, snow-capped, potent. Coming between me and the sun, intermittently, at will. Clouds don't know the wind, don't know thermodynamics. They think that they're free.
Jon Robison Poetry 