On flitter-moist mornings when swallows scream
at grey linen clouds,
we tether ourselves
to the jubilant blue above, hitching gossamer ropes
and hoping to rise through the pearling mist
that dampens our business suits.
We are cumuli, tumbled together
into piles of soft muted wool.
Pinned down by the weighted sky, we strive to fly farther
than the fine line of our expectations.