The Happy Cloud

I don't like the atmosphere;
it has completely forgotten me.
I don't like hunters.
They bring their children with,
clutching foam arrows.
They think the forest is a logo.
For them, swimming is more important
than almost anything.
They write essays
about how the water feels
like better skin.
When I was young,
I must have been a whisper.
I had to clean things up,
so I found a little rain,
pinched my edges together
like a machine
for telling fortunes.
I want to invent a new stroke
but I need a better harness,
something more effective
than the laboratory's casual wind.
If I could convince
a dozen hunters
to shoot at me,
one hundred geese
might startle from the bulrushes,
lift me up
where the indefinite sky
tears so slowly
the elements migrate.
Wings are like scissors
if you misunderstand
a fulcrum,
I mean what's the difference
between a bag of helium
and a bag of oxygen?
It has to do with emotions.
It's so like a compass
to spin in place, to break
where the air gets thin.
I don't have teeth.
I'm afraid of outer space.
I cannot pronounce anything.