text: Spring began with a violent storm. The storm was darker than the previous storm. It was wetter too. The clouds regaled as lightning burst and thunder cracked. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” “Collecting that vapor is no easy chore,” whispered Stratus. “But a cloud must go, where winds do flow,” said Cirro. With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the land from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw rivers change. He saw plants come and go, as was nature’s way. Once, he had been low enough to pass through a peak, but never felt it’s rocky touch. Because clouds cannot embrace what it is they feel. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Summer began with a reasonable storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds delighted as lightning surged and thunder smashed. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” “Quite a lot of time we have spent indeed,” responded Nimbus. “And plenty of effort too.” All the while Stratus was silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked him. “I did not collect any vapor this time,” he responded. “The birds spoke as I floated. They said I am far too repressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the grass benefit from our storm. They said the three of you had accomplished more than enough.” “She had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can land on any tree or drink from any river. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the seas from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw mountains change. He saw creatures come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass around a peak, but never caught it’s steady glance. Because clouds cannot examine what it is they see. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Fall began with a hesitant storm. The storm was lighter than the previous storm. It was dryer too. The clouds elated as lightning flared and thunder clapped. “It has been a while,” Cirrus boasted, “since we have lit the sky like this.” All the while Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not collect any energy this time,” said Nimbus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too oppressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the trees benefit from our storm. They said the two of you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a point,” thought Cirro, “the birds can speak to any creature or taste any meal. The birds must be wise if they can touch any peak they desire. Better not cause a fuss, there was still a storm after all.” With that, the birds wished them luck and the clouds were off. The air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, and happily so. For Cirro loved to float. He saw the skies from high above, as most never could. He experienced time pass, and saw trees change. He saw people come and go, as was nature’s way. Once he had been low enough to pass beside a peak, but never heard it’s call. Because clouds cannot detect what they ought to hear. They can observe for a fleeting moment, but never alter. And that was fine with Cirro. For he knew why he was made. He knew that every cloud had a storm to create. Winter began with no storm at all. The skies were brighter than ever before, and the earth dryer. The clouds languished as no lightning was seen and no thunder was heard. Cirrus, Nimbus and Stratus were silent. “Is everything all right?” Cirro asked them. “We did not put in any effort this time,” said Cirrus. “The birds spoke as we floated. They said we are far too depressed to be doing this sort of work. They said only the Earth benefits from our storm. They said you had accomplished more than enough.” “They had a moot point,” thought Cirro, “the birds did not understand that more than one relished in a storm’s benefit. The birds must not be wise if they can touch any peak they desire but never appreciate doing so. Better to cause a fuss than have no storm at all.” With that, Cirro turned to speak to the others. But the air carried Cirrus high and Nimbus higher, Stratus low and Cirro lower, but unhappily so. For Cirro had discerned for too long. He knew in his heart that the birds had been wrong. But he never spoke up. As the breeze heightened he realized they had created their last storm. He watched the trees, river, and mountain fade from view. And over the horizon clouds did go.