Clouds have something to say, even when I do not know their meaning. On returning from my walk yesterday I looked up and saw this.
I marveled at the pattern and wondered what the clouds had to tell me. But forgot them in the afternoon’s work of building a new story of ancient Ireland. And dinner. And conversation. And a movie.
Around ten o’clock I looked out the window and saw a mysterious pattern of clouds still spread across the sky, lit then by the rising moon. I turned out the house lights to see them better. Then knew I must go outside for the full effect.
And saw this.
The magic of it! I stood silent. Let the glory enclose me. In an opening off to my right a star twinkled. A star! When I had immersed myself in the wonder of the eastern sky I turned and strode west and found more stars peeking out from those extraordinary clouds that reached all the way to the western horizon. Every horizon. A full crown. Then back to the rising moon in the east that lightened the entire sky.
I contemplated a photo. Surely it could not grasp this. No, but it offers a glimpse.
Clouds do speak, surely. What do they say? Scientists probably have a name for this. The ancient people of my stories would have accepted the reality. Of Magic.
