The Cloud Sculptor

High on a hill the wind whistles a song
Where shadows are short and the day stretches long
Lives a sculptor whose art is never the same
His clouds are his canvas, the sky is his frame

Each day upon sunrise he works in the mist
Creating his vision with an uncommon twist
The early red mountains awake with a yawn
Where creatures of clouds fly and dance with the dawn

Lacey white ships sailing over the blue
While dolphins and mermaids leap out into view
A dragon, a fairy, an angel with wings
An image so vivid, you can hear as she sings

He plans out his stories, each day they are new
In pink and white shades with a light purple hue
The colors will blend as he plays with the light
But as the day dwindles, they vanish from sight

We know nothing of him or from whence he came
But he’ll always be there for the wind knows his name