Life, in all its transparency, manifest as a many-winged creature, each feather, a diaphanous coterie, designed to support the whole, has begun to molt, shedding feathers prematurely, an unfortunate result of not being able to blend in well with the other feathers. But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky.* Where do they belong?
Like the clouds, the unwanted feathers float down to earth, building a nest for the many-winged creature that has flown off into the horizon. Meanwhile, we wait for its return, when a time foretold by prophets will manifest, in front of the eyes of all peoples. A sudden realization for some; yet, a welcome arrival for others, like the long awaited return of an old friend. Then the many-winged creature will appear, in all of its glory.
*from the poem Clouds, by Constance Urdang