Just in the moment before Man, up from the earth went a mist
(possibly Adam’s first sight),
For clouds are God’s favorite subject, the sky his preferred canvas.
And his busy algorithms repaint them, moment by moment,
unrestrained brushwork of wisps, whorls, billows, and barrels.
The work we see has never before been,
And never again will be;
Singular as snowflakes, of which the loftiest are made,
Morphing apace, in day and dark, at atmospheric scales.
With Da Vinci, painters mastered the human face,
Expressing its charm, nobility, and mien.
But none have done justice to the clouds; mere impressions.
Nor photographers, who crop their bounds and still their graces.
To see a cloud is but a snapshot;
Clouds are, to be watched,
From their oft-missed dawn revealings
To their sublime sunset ceilings.
If clouds make visible the terror of the hurricane,
And the funnel of the whirlwind;
They bring morning shower and summer shade;
Palls of gray give way to linings silver, gold and rose.
To the Chinese, clouds symbolized happy fortune.
To the Akkadians, they were the goddess Antu’s ample bosom,
Her milk the blessed rain.
“Worship no deities,” Socrates admonished, “other than the clouds.”
Like father Adam with his animals, men named the mists,
Stratus, Cumulus, Cirrus . . .
But there is hubris in naming
What cannot be counted, nor owned, nor fathomed.
So many clouds!
As if the blues of the sky
Weren’t already
Too much glory to take in.
Shawn Miller is Professor of History at Brigham Young University where he teaches courses on the environment and history of Latin America. He has written books on Brazil’s colonial forests and Rio de Janeiro’s urban streets, and his current research examines the unfinished Pan-American Highway and the environmental impacts of automotive infrastructure in the developing world. He’s an amateur birder, a casual canoeist, and long-time bike commuter. He also currently serves as the chair of the Provo Agricultural Commission, which works to preserve farmland and open space in the city.
