Smudges in the sky

The sky was intriguingly smudged a few days ago. It looked like a patchwork-quilt-patterned dome above the city. There were patches of sky that were different shades of blue, grey and white. Over there, a patch of greyish blue sky covered with flimsy, nothing-much clouds; a patch of steely teal in the corner of the horizon with puffy clouds in the foreground; bright aquamarine and the softest pastel-hues of blue; dark cobalt blue streaked with abrupt daubs of white. It was like a baby in heaven got a hold of God's art supplies, then proceeded to decorate the sky with the reckless abandon only children have.


The clouds were intriguingly smudged and haphazard as well. There were white, poofy, crisp clouds; like really pale cotton candy. And then there were really wispy and confused clouds; they looked like the strands you get when you tear a cotton ball apart with your fingers, and they couldn't decide whether to pull themselves together or if it just wasn't worth the trouble. Some grey-becoming-black clouds hung forebodingly in the air, heavy with the threat of rain; terrific thunder clouds. I could hear my imagination rumbling just looking at them.


I wish I had a camera in my head. I want to learn to bottle whimsy. That way, I could preserve it and have it for breakfast, with toast and coffee. I imagine pickled whimsy would taste sweet and tangy like jam, don't you?


This is Figgy, abruptly leaving.