We used to shoot down clouds. Like everything else, we had our reasons. Concern turned to tradition, tradition became boredom, and boredom begets more boredom. Only the ugly ones went first: writhing cumuli like cats in bags, wispy cirrus redolent of fish skeletons, and those drunken nimbostratus doddering to and fro.

If they could seed the clouds out west like fertile loam why couldn't we scupper them like clipper ships full of pirates? We jumped to arms at the smallest shadow, stuffing any old thing into our long cannons: roadkill, bowling trophies, used tires, Xmas trees.

We weren't going to be at the mercy of the sky.

Once, a fragment of stratus fell on the mayor's car and he promptly charged a new one to the town's coffers. When Marvin Barney asked why he didn't get a new car when a tornado twisted his into a terrible sculpture, the mayor gave a speech:

"Thoreau let weeds have the benefit of the doubt," he said. "After all, what is a weed but a plant whose purpose has not been discovered? He said nothing about clouds, however, for what is life or death to something that is really only a shadow?"

Everyone talked about that speech for days. And though the history buffs will say our war with the sky ended in a tie at best, we know the truth because the sky listens when we scream at it now. And we have a lot to say.


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