She is there on the cumulous
white light crisp like promises of rain
further from the sky where she wanders
at the break between shadow and its other.
There are wisps around her,
the credible tremble, the hunt onwards
for the next possible, the lightning strike
the storm in the space she breathes, there.
She moves in on wind gust, balancing on cloud-thread
like that, a dervish or a spindle, a whirring
the woolly pillow of cloud into the long drops
the watery light falls through her fingers.
The ribbed pattern of the wind is the brush of her fingers.
The long stroke of the sky
meditation of dropping, the luxurious water.