the most beautiful thing: cloud cover
The cloud line cups it perfectly, that body, echoing the tree line and hovering as if there were no wind. A perfect, perfect band of nothing between them, nothing, nothing, nothing, but charged. Nothing, but full of something. Nothing, but ripe for the flight of birds and the waft of jet fuel and the disappearance of time. The cloud formed over the flatiron mini-mountain in just such a way as to send a shiver down my spine and heat to my cheek. It was perfect and nothing. And in it was everything.
And I looked back only a few seconds later and it was gone, the shape of it all. The shape of it all has gone soft. The shape of it all has let the wind carry it away. The shape of it all has drifted down the range to other bodies of rock and pine and the air between them is now uneven, mussed by the wind.
It was there. It was there so perfectly for so long. So long. So long, those few seconds. Fleeting but hovering. The clouds tell a simple truth. A pointy, unnerving truth. A beautiful truth.
Image by Tom Spencer.