Life Through Binoculars Poem by Whit Leyenberger

Up in the highlands with the God clouds
I ask them to tell me my name as they pass by
as silent as love slipping from familiar lips.
These leviathans of insubstance could humble away the world of men
with the real patience only known by those unfettered
by the superstition of time: those that only ever maybe existed.
But if I had anything tonight, it’d be a hot air balloon and a harpoon
so I could continue the legacy of my species
hunting our whales of mist.