Cirrus drifted over the green meadow and spotted a flower with brown, curling petals. Its stem bent low, almost touching the earth. A gray smudge began to spread across his middle. He sighed a puff of warm air, and the grass below rippled. Maybe he could help, he thought, but the memory of rain was a locked door he could not open.
Cirrus squeezed his edges and puffed his center as hard as he could. A sprinkle of dust plops onto a nearby leaf. He tried again. A low rumble echoed through him like a swallowed sneeze. The dust drifted down, glittering in the sun, but the flower stayed dry. He frowned, soft and round.
Cirrus hovered beside a sunflower that drooped toward the ground. Its petals were pale and tired. He pressed closer, willing something to happen. Nothing came. A dry crackle of wind passed between them. He drifted away, his edges fraying into thin wisps.
Cirrus squeezed his edges again, harder this time. A rumble shivered through him. A faint sprinkle sputtered out — then stopped. His form trembled, half-empty. The gray smudge darkened. He let himself float, thin and uncertain, above the quiet meadow.
A flash of blue streaked past. Cirrus jerked sideways. Tiny droplets beaded on the bird's wing. The bird gave a quick chirp and flapped upward, then circled back once. A single damp feather spiraled down, spinning in the sunlight, and settled onto a brown petal.
Cirrus watched the feather come to rest. The bird's quick chirp echoed in his mind. His fear, he realized, was a wall he hadn't climbed yet. He turned slowly toward the first flower, which now drooped almost to the soil.
He closed his eyes and remembered the dry earth below. Then he pushed forward. Rain poured in steady silver threads. His body grew heavy and sank lower through the warm air. The flower lifted its head, petals uncurling, and drank deeply.
The flower stood tall again, dripping and bright. Cirrus floated back up, lighter now, his edges soft and white once more. He looked down at the meadow — the green was richer, the colors deeper. A smile shaped itself across his form.
Gentle rain followed his every thought now. He drifted over a patch of thirsty clover andwatered it slowly. The clover perked up, each tiny leaf turning toward the sky. He kept drifting, light and steady, helping wherever he could.
A butterfly with orange wings landed softly on his edge. Cirrus hovered still, letting it rest. The meadow below was green and full and quiet. He would keep drifting. He would keep helping. The sky was his home, and it was enough.
