The Cowl of the Cumulonimbus

For years I’ve mulled about upon this mountain,
beside a river bed run dry as I.
It is here I climbed,
to flee the field of prying eyes.
To escape a faulty place,
where the prideful scry you from the side….
But, that’s reactive crap!
You see,
as time passed, my mind relaxed.
In fact,
I can’t help but miss the healing parts.
Like lips and teeth,
that speak to weakened hearts,
and lead them, fiending, from the dark.
So, as twilight thickens on this mountaintop,
I wish a moving mouth
would make my motor stop.
Skip a spin, or half heard beat,
just a jolt enough to make me drop.
But here I only hear the thunder.
It appears,
the cowl of the cumulonimbus,
I am far from under.
So lightning never strikes.
No, it never sets my kite alight….
And, in hindsight,
I’d soon trade toiling at this height,
for a patient peck, or playful bite.