Grace too great to know by name.
To call on only when need is near.
Help too hard of hearing and far to hear,
clear start ringing like birds start singing an instant after rain has passed.
From flooding showers to black clouds of power,
to the white and submissive ones with subversive intentions.
These white clouds will take you and make you into slaves.
Feed you leftover slop pot stories of long-predated freedom walks.
Which is where some grace truly lives. In solitary white clouds, somewhere.
Waiting for those below to choke the abrupt dry twang of thirst before they burst.
Their kind of grace is the worst. But after it stops raining,
in just a matter of seconds, the birds start singing again.
There is more value to clouds that look like they hold rain.
A grace breeds within them which is too great to name.
Too distant to try and call on. Just find a dry place to wait,
and listen for the return of birdsongs.

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