A Summer Evening

Heavy clouds roll over the sky,
not smothering, yet with great presence.
Sun still stands high, thus branding them,
though by them too reduced; it is concealed,
as a fire behind cotton cloth may be.
Not far off is a hole broken through the clouds,
revealing faint brush strokes behind it,
delicate wisps in lines, following the wind.
The sky is still bright, but the air is tired:
it is damp and wishes to drag, as when the sun retires;
yet it is not oppressive, as it is drawn up by the wind, and prevented from rest,
as one who is sad may still go through the motions when swept along.
The leaves in the trees shimmer by the same wind,
and all is silent save for their rustle.