I knew a boy who saw stories in the clouds.

he said,
some are painted on the domed-jar  sky
and some--like those popcorn creatures up there,
lifted themselves over the mountains and flew away.

When the paint licks down the side of the jar,
the creatures are crying, he told me,
that's when people bloom their umbrellas
and look down at the sequined ground.

But they should look up.

See on this hill, you look up and
believe that the world is round,
they would have known Columbus was right
if they only loved the clouds more.

You and me are special. We look up, he said,

and even then, when I could count my age on one hand,
I knew it was true.