We are pulled like salt-water taffy
from the sky
across a big parking lot
a few people below say,
“what a nice cloud shape-is that a condor?”
They don’t hear the sub-rhythms
that drive our currents, nor do they know
why we smile at our laptops intermittently.
The unknown is a bubble of joy
growing in a still pond, full of light and music
sort of like fireworks only we can see,
making the lily pads quiver
to music only we can hear.
The Word Rummager 
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