The Cartographer of Clouds

He traces the silver fraying edges, where the cumulus yields to the blue, a border drawn in disappearing ink, shifting before the ink can dry.

There are names for the shadows cast across the bruised hills— unmapped archipelagos of vapor, anchored only by the weight of light.

He measures the distance between the thunder's pulse and the silence, a geography of the temporary, where every landmark is a breath.

Tonight the wind is an editor, erasing the mountains of the west, leaving only the ghost of a ridge and the scent of approaching rain.