Moon, worn thin to the width of a quill,/ In the dawn clouds flying,/ How good to go, light into light, and still/ Giving light, dying.

The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far we are pursued by nothing else.

They encounter spiders, cars, parking lots at dawn, hosts that eat them, ... Just flying is a dangerous thing.

The south-wind strengthens to a gale, / Across the moon the clouds fly fast, / The house is smitten as with a flail, / The chimney shudders to the blast.

The white saucer like some full moon descends / At last from the clouds of the table above.

If you're looking up and see the clouds moving one direction and a bird flying the other, it can really throw you off.