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As she lay beneath and stared up at the silvery white leaves of the majestic maple tree, she occasionally caught glimpses of the puffy cotton-white clouds that slowly drifted across the afternoon sky. And as she lay there, her thoughts wandered to the clouds.

“What a life,” she thought, “to just silently and endlessly drift over the land. Everything a cloud sees in its lifetime,” she lamented. “How pitiful that a human will never be as content as a cloud must be. Never do you see a cloud fog its emotions. It rains when its sad, and is playful when its happy. It sees the all of the world that it wants and not once does it complain when it has to end its journey early.” She sat a moment and considered things. “Us humans,” she continued, “what would make us as content as a cloud?”

“Dear child,” a soft, light voice came, “how is it that you think of clouds as content? Do they not ravage the earth when they’re mad? Do they not parch and starve the ground when they are angry or greedy? Are they not always changing shape to hide their true selves, their own fears?”

The woman thought on this for a moment. The wind gently caressed the skin on her cheeks, causing them to flush and become rosy. “Yes…yes. I guess you are right in that. Clouds are like man, then. Never content with the way things are, always trying to hide their feelings and fears.”

And the tree stood content. It had made it’s point.

“I wonder what a cloud really looks like,” she remarked, breaking the silence.

“Why? Why do you want to know?” the tree asked, it’s bark sending fresh, woody smells to the woman, holding her attention.

“I don’t know,” she pondered. She smiled, “Because I am curious, I want to know. Don’t you?”

“Ahhhh,” the tree sighed. “And there is the difference between men and clouds: Men search out answers; they ask questions, they are curious. Clouds, however, never question themselves, or anything. They never want to know more.”

The woman stood up from her spot beneath the tree. “Maybe the clouds are just misunderstood. Maybe they hide themselves so they can learn more, like a spy or something,” she let out a brief sigh, turned to the tree, smiled and said, “Still…it’d be nice to see what a cloud really looks like.” And with that, the woman turned, and walked away into the field of browning wheat.

The tree stood silent for a minute. Unexpectedly, a wind came and ruffled the leaves on it’s branches. Silently, the silver-white leaves dropped from the weathered branches and lifted up with the wind. One by one the shining leaves rose and turned into wisps of puffy white. As they drifted higher and higher into the sky, they whispered soft thanks to the woman.

“We are always changing,” they said to themselves, “because we are curious too. To see the world from simply one perspective is not for us.”

As the last leaf disappeared into the sky, the dead and bare tree looked mournfully to the sky. Slowly it started to cry, sending drops of water dripping, cascading down to the ground. Soon, what was once the tree was naught but a puddle of wet on the mounded earth.

“You are not content with yourselves because you are like humans or are you truly…like me?” The puddle mourned. “You are like that because of me,” the water decided, “Water is always moving, always changing. It is my fault you are like this.”

The clouds looked down at the small wetness on the earth and took pity on their mother, their sister. Always confined to see the earth from one perspective, they thought, has made her feel guilty. How innocent, how naive has she become? What is wrong with change, with wanting to know more?

So they parted, and let the sun shine down on her. The woman returned, less solid than before, and helped the water rise to her offspring, her sisters, herself. And as she rose, she smiled a great smile, and whispered in awe, “Life is beautiful.”