Fast as a wink, clouds race light as a feather over the dirt and rocks we’re standing on. We look up, and I ask out loud, why are the clouds in such a hurry, and where in the world do you think they’re going? Israel’s brown eyes melt the blue sky. He’s right. He’s astute.
The clouds look like smoke.
I should leave well enough alone, but I don’t. I offer some nonsense about the sky being on fire, and the clouds billowing just like the smoke that escapes through the chimney of your next door neighbor’s house, and it occurs to me, right then, that maybe I’m not so astute. We look down again and catch the mirrored effects of the coastal vapors. Israel, all of twelve years, inspired by the atmosphere, or maybe the pressure to hold a conversation, decides to school me. There’s cumulus, and nimbus stratus, he says. Now, the other boys in line incline a cumulative ear. Cirrus, he continues, cumulonimbus, and altostratus. This seems a perfectly good ending, but I push him some more. I ask Israel what the puffy ones are called. You know, the ones that look like animals? Get to the good stuff, kid, cheesy nachos await!
Simple time flies by
In a nimbus stratus speech
Bunnies fall from clouds