佚名/Anonymous
I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But I think trees are clouds, too, of green leaves—clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipates like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well-advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause is sweeping through the trees.
电脑上方便是东侧的窗户，我把窗帘拉开。现在我坐在天与地构成的这个神圣的剧场里，正对着远方天蓝色的舞台。邻居家的树上方栖息着一小片云朵，一开始像极了吉米·杜朗特的大鼻子，后来又慢慢散开，向北悄悄**去。其他的云彩——有大有小，洁白如雪——都跟随着它，不知要往哪儿走。这个美丽的阵列看上去正上下起伏，因为总有那么一两片云朵，要么抬起头来，要么故意沉下去。