C(K)iller Clouds, A Story

Today, the clouds came to kill what they could. This happened the day after the warmest day in November. It could not, nor would not, be explained. The clouds looked especially soft, but not thin, nebulous. They came from the west and consumed the browned grasses first, with field mice and deer bones scattered on a plain, like a plate. They ate without making a sound. They were experienced killers, these clouds, and when captured, slipped through fingers and floated up into the sky. We looked up at them and named the shapes they formed, Bunny, Horse, Star, even Mink Coat. The clouds started killing children, taking them without their bodies--these they left behind beneath the jungle gym bars, with rosy cheeks. We closed our doors and our windows and watched the clouds sink to our streets and roam with soft murdering. Sometimes, we heard a muffled cry, sometimes laughter, and then silence. When the clouds left, we mourned. The clouds were ruthless and those taken up into the sky also remained on the ground, with mouths hanging open. The clouds came down to kill every year, for one day. The day after the warmest day in November. We hated them. We sent balloons up into the sky with messages tied onto string. Some begged for the return of their loved ones. Others wrote hateful words. Every year, since I learned to write, I wrote: Who taught you to love this way?