The clouds are completely still. There's no motion, they're smeared across the sky the way you might smear ink over rough paper. They're a cold spacious colour, not entirely grey, not heavy enough to carry the threat of rain.

The only movement here is light; our sun is just past the horizon, and it has brushed light over the underside of everything, bringing out textures on the undersurfaces, picking out the bumps and valleys with warmth.

It's a wide scene. The sun lowers, weighting up-cast light heavily to one side, leaving the surfaces of the rest of the cloud undescribed, until eventually it's gone entirely. I try to remember the effect it had. I can't quite get it right; it's hard to look at something uniform and to picture exactly where the light belonged.

I'm thinking of my friend, she told me that she got to see a lot of nice things. In past tense.


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