Country French Corn Clouds

I throw a loaf of Country French bread in the slicer and hit the switch.  The motor starts like a machine gun.  As the pieces slide through the cutter I peer across the counter out the window. I look up at the sky.  It is my escape from bakery stress and chaos.  The sky is bright and blue holding wisps of cirrus clouds.  It looks as if God himself artistically painted them.  But far off in the distance beyond the cirrus clouds is a lonely cumulonimbus. But it is not so lonely, for the sun bathes and lavishes it with light.  The bread slides through evenly, and I toss in another loaf. I claim the cloud as my own.  If I could have a cloud to myself, it would be him.  I name him Claudius.  Imagine if he were as firm as a bed pillow?  At top speed I would race down his fluffy hilltops and paw through the snow like rivers.  My cloud would smell like strawberry short cake and taste like raspberry sorbet. But clouds aren't real.  They are but gas in the sky that give shade, and water crops.  The thirsty crops watch me drive to work every day.  They were little corn stalks when the summer began.  Each day they grew greener. Each week they grew taller. Sometimes on my way home, when the lazy sun is drifting in the clouds and the windy high way whips the corn back and forth, I wish to join it.  Like a small child under the kitchen chairs I would silently sneak through the green corn.  And once I had reached the middle of the field I would lay on my back and stare up at the sky. The world would be silent, all but the cars.  And there I would listen.  The sounds of summertime would enhance me with their music.  The winds and waving trees and chirping birds and rustling grass would be a symphony to my ears.  And God himself would be the conductor. But who has time to sit in corn fields listening to the sounds of the earth? No one.  And that is why I write about it.