It seems that clouds can still be mighty:
I was driving down the highway,
Windows open, the rush of air
And summer, with its moody squalls,
Brought a wall of gray and purple to bear
On my left, the driver's side.
Imagine what May is known for
And this running past the right eye;
In the other, oncoming night.
But the breeze that threw cold in my shirt
Did not bring the spatter of rain;
On the windshield, only light fell
Trained in a beam from the cleft above.
You've seen this sort of thing as well
And half-expect to hear a choir.
An omen? A portal? A keyhole?
Must it figure in order to mean?
The oblong swath of green lit up
Like when we were young and outside
Busy with a magnifying glass —
Funny to think of those days.