I grew up
in a house made of clouds
with walls of wind
and floors of fine red dust.
I could stretch my wings
and never come to an end of it.
I grew up
in a land made of storm,
whose hills were updrafts,
whose valleys were downdrafts,
all spiraling inward.
I could glide for miles or months
and never come to the end of it.
I grew up
in the Great Red Spot.
My parents moved here
from the homeworld before I hatched.
I watched the silver eggs fly by without wings,
and mother would crackle to me that they
belonged to humans, who lived
in houses of hard wood
on lands made of dust.
I felt a little sorry for them
to be so small, so solid, so finite,
and said so. My father laughed,
a broadband burst of static,
and said that some people
envied the humans,
wanting to walk on dust
and live in wood
as they did.
When I stopped laughing back,
I said no, no—far better
to live in a cloudhouse
in the stormland
and be free.