And then water and rain-- of course, the important element--
and the moisture of the important elements, of clouds.
This one with the title of the book The Place
Where Clouds are Formed.
Every day it is the same.
He comes home.
He tells her about it.
As he speaks, his breath condenses in front of his face.
She goes about her business.
Every now and then she looks over.
She doesn't hear his voice.
She sees the soft fog that continues to form a halo.
She knows he is still talking about that place.
He never tires of it like she does.
Only on summer days when the air is hot and moisture still
a long time in coming, she asks him
to tell her about that place.
She sits facing him, waiting for the first vocalics, non-stops,
the push of air from his lips.
He tells her of the place where clouds are formed.
The cool dampness of his voice is rich.
Even on a dry June day, her face beads with the wetness
as he talks directly to her--
each aspirated sound a gentle burst of coolness.
"Tell me again, tell me again," she teases.
If he knew she only wanted the relief
from the heat and not the story, he would stop talking.
He begins, "The first time I saw the place were
clouds are formed was from the window of a train."
Another time was in a mirage in the heat outside Tucson.
Once he thought he saw it in the dry light of stars.
The place he remembers best was when
he saw it in the eyes of a woman he spoke to.
When he first noticed it, she hid it by lowering her gaze.
Soon she let him look freely.
There were times when she opened her eyes wide,
allowing an obscured view.
Sometimes he saw her eyes smolder with dryness
on a summer day.
Other times she was rich with moisture.
Clouds came in succession.
The earth's shadows muted.
"You know the 40 days and 40 nights?
I was there.
I'll be there when it happens again,"
she said with a slight smile.
Like a child, he rushed to look into her eyes
at every opportunity.
If he could, he would hang on her eye socket,
peering inside, marveling at her display.
Part 2.
An unusually cold December day around Christmas, cloud, mist
find solace in the canyons of the Santa Catalina Mountains.
White moisture quietly moving amid the cactus.
Truly, clouds, wind, and rain are the few elements
that can touch the saguaro from head
to foot, oblivious of spines, needles.
Rubbery hide surrounded, soothed by elements.
Contact triggers stored heat from remembered summers.
Moisture beads roll forward, unstoppable.
From the city below, we see mist rising, mist rising.
Part 3.
We sit close in the cab of the truck.
The weather is cold, wet outside, too messy
to stand in waiting for a school bus.
My father's truck is warm inside,
having been at work since 4:00 AM.
The sound of the engine is soothing,
heater working to capacity.
Inside the cab we are silent.
We don't need language.
We listen to the regular hum of the engine, rhythm
of the windshield wipers, soft rain on the hood,
aware of the cold air surrounding
our temporary shelter.
We look out over the fields where
the fog clings to the soil.
Every now and then with the back of his gloved hand
he wipes the windshield.
"Is it coming yet?"
The three of us sit quietly, breathing clouds.
Clouds condense as they contact the coolness of the windows.
My father appears to breathe air with moisture in balance.
He forms no clouds.
He watches us.
We continue to breathe gray, soft mist, waiting
for the school bus.