“The air up there in the clouds is very pure and fine, bracing and delicious. And why shouldn’t it be?–it is the same the angels breathe.”
― Mark Twain
Overhead, stretched across an endless palate, colors and textures collide in a dazzling spectacle.
Dust particles, light and various masses of air–some hot, some cold, choreograph a mesmerizing heavenly banquet–an endless feast for any skyward glance.
Shifts in atmospheric pressure rise and fall, as foreign winds whip unseen forces into precarious unions. Colors, of radiant glory, sparkle as from a million tiny prisms suspended on an seen chandelier.
As Winter’s evening light sets forth a tantalizing tidbit of self, explosions within the spectrum, seldom seen with such force, offer grandeur over an otherwise barren land.
An invisible hand unfurls a massive patchwork quilt which falls languidly over a sleepy land.
“Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
Red sky at night, sailors delight”
Echoes of ancient rhymes lyrically and rhythmically rise and fall as a lofty drama plays out guiding the ancient traveler.
Summer’s heat unleashes instability, as an ominous skyward cocktail mixes aloft.
Overhead a thousand unseen forces prepare to do battle.
Change is soon at hand as varying air masses vie for control,
As a cacophony of sound and light unleash a frightening display.
Yet just as quickly as refuge and safety is sought, the unseen foe is suddenly vanquished.
Light emerges the victor as wary souls emerge unscathed while eyes still scan the changing sky.