The Cloud Herder

He had a place up in the hills
A yard full of jalopies, some
He called 'classics'
Others he just turned into chicken coops
There was always a bucket of ice
At the back door for beer
I would come in
Pick out two cans, find him
And we would talk til
Sometime before cock crow
When he would go to the porch and I watched
Him whistle up the wind, clouds at his feet
All different sizes, thunderheads,
Wisps, mallows, bones across the sky
He'd wrap one around me like it was a coat,
Tell it to bring me home safe and sound
And I would wake in a meadow after dawn
His name a fading echo in my head.

And as for that one

I always was a witch
Not the kind sat by a spinning wheel,
Not the cauldron crafter, gatherer of herbs
No broomstick, wise hands, pumpkin by the door
I am that time the clouds looked upside down
The quizzical expression of a stranger
The message chalked upon a pavement
When you remembered what was going to happen.
I am what rolled the escalator backwards.
Graffiti at the deserted bus station
giving you directions before you blinked,
found yourself atop a rodeo steer, blinked again,
passport checked, flying to Another Country
I am a scrabble tile for no word ever.
I am the wiring in this elevator,
the city in the tesseract, and its guide,
storm in the air, heart whirling on the sand.
A voice will say;'we don’t know what this is
so til we do, best call it a witch.'
But you know better, when you hear my name
among the murmurations on the wind