I am confessing to a nubivagant mind.

The clouds entice me; I am so very allergic to the ground.

The ground is just cracked pavement with weeds growing out, trying to be pretty and, though I can relate,

the nubivagant mind does not wish to associate with things so low.

No, the mind I have can talk to the birds, and I am free.

If you asked the ground why it hated me so, it would say to you that I am too light.  Every step I try to take upon it makes no impact, and I tread with feather-like imitation.

I progress much farther when cycling through blue gusts instead.  

I am a spirit, and nobody owns me.

I tell all the harmonious things that their time will come, I am working for them

for those who wish for peace, I am a servant.

I am not a flawless wind, however.

Sometimes I am an accdiental hurricane and I frighten the other nubivagant minds.  

We are very few, but we scare easy.

I am allergic to the ground, and the ground hates me for it.