Oh you sky, who art so vastly enormous and so far over my head. Your clouds dance lightly like foam potatoes bouncing towards a bubbling pot of hot water, from whence god or whomever spoons them out and beats them into a cumulonimbus mash and eats them with a pat of cold sun that will melt in their hot squishy whiteness.
Oh you sky. You look so huge and yet are you aware that the universe goes on forever, and that blue is only a reflection of something, maybe ozone and/or the ocean, and are you also aware that on gray days it is impossible to tell where you stop and Lake Superior starts? What is your deal, sky? Where are the whales dipping in and out of your threshold? Oh there they are. They are called birds, and they drop poop from the heights. Whales don’t do that. Whale poop sinks down gracefully and something on the bottom eats it. Something that will never be seen because it is dark down there and also one doesn’t want to brag about that kind of a diet.
But never mind. You look much different at night. You look dressed up, like you’re going out. Am I invited? Never mind. Go have fun.
Tomorrow you’ll still be there. And we’ll all be here, down here. Should I come up there with a hang glider? Or do you feel more like rain?