Time

I reason, heading West
into a squinting sun

that cloud shapes, dappled
herringbone, will not be around

for more than minutes
before they fall or soar

and make their way back home
in hours or days by plummeting rain

along a stream and river,
freshwater clean,

until, salty as tears, in the sea
after three thousand years

they are blessed again with ascension,
I reason, heading West.