Clouds.

At a certain altitude,

a person becomes

the plaything

of clouds.

We ascend through

stratus,

miserable

as an autistic child -

never stopping,

always drizzling.

It's too grey

for me to

see cumulus clouds:

humilis, mediocris,

congestus, fractus, radiatus -

they all

hide their faces.

I count myself 

lucky

that the plane

doesn't fly into

a cumulonimbus -

that would be like

entering

the kingdom

of a tyrant:

tumult,

and chaos,

and darkness;

and not much else.

It's hard to notice

cirrus clouds,

but this

tin can

feels less frigid

than one might think it ought to.

Cruising at 30,000 feet

near the lid of the troposphere,

the sky reveals

its layered children 

to eyes curious enough

to look.