Muttering at the Storm

Odds are, humans will read us,
That is, if anything will.
Let’s address the clouds, instead.

They gather outside the hut
We fancy our casita
To bring the storm to a head.

Listen clouds, we know you can’t.
We know you have no senses,
No mind, no attention span.

You never exist as things.
You’re just names. You don’t cohere.
You’re just here. You understand?

Look at you. Pure metaphor
On the hoof. Herd of vapors.
You’re like time, or truth, or gods—

Can’t even be framed except
In terms of solider things.
Oh, rain now? What were the odds?