On your next flight,
I hope you get cirrus clouds
suspended at 
three thousand feet. 

And a window seat. 

Otherwise it won’t matter. 

You won’t have the chance to
watch them turn into
a field of sheep,
a ravaged pet bed scattered in
the living room,
purgatory,
an archipelago,
broods of Arctic hens,
     organic,
     peaceful, 
     happy,
     at least 
     at this altitude. 

That one looks like a 
white puppy
on her back,
innocent,
though the pet bad 
makes you wonder. 

So many of them look like
paddlings of ducks.

That one’s a fox
for sure,
ears alert,
tail taut,

about to feast on
hens and 
my imagination.