Here is a poem written in Malana after a day of intermittent rain and rolling thunder clouds. I think the quality of the cream speaks for itself.

the mountains cloud white
up the whisking vale
in tusks of white fleet
rolling
rolling on themselves
like enlacing gods
scoop the valley floor
then throw fog
in grey concubessance
and all is enveloped
hill upon hill
mountain over mountain
and all the way down to the dark carp
in the streams.
The pines hold the fog in their hands
like crystal fingers
and yet the fog slips through them
like time.

I roll in thunderous procession,
thinks the great grey wonder,
I circle like a screw over people
and their gods and their homes
and their chickens.