walking, skipping, running
through the fields of golden hay
with sprouting sleeves of green
like green apple and lime,
hiking through the stony terrain
with my cloud of thoughts,
those rainy, rainy clouds of doubt
or thundering tempest pounding away
crackling and careening into a frenzy
blinding like the way
the ice skitters across the cliff sides
and accumulate on my breath,
running, run so the clouds cease to trail
sing, with a spiriting tune
gliding, soaring in the high, high stratosphere
where maybe its notes can beam
under the radiance of the shining sun