CLOUDS.

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One cloud black and brooding, maybe hiding thunder and lightening along my road, as I drove to the dump. We rarely see a a building cumulus, those rare beauties of the sky.

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Gotthold called  them chariots of the sky. I turned around to take the picture before they disappeared.

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By the time I reached the highway, they were bigger, bolder. Again I stopped and thought what beauty, and how much better they would look without the interference of signs and telephone poles and wires. So, I decided to look up a poem about clouds. I couldn’t find any that weren’t ominous. Though I own 34 books of poetry. I was stunned when I counted them. I didn’t take the time to look in every book, but each time I pick up a tome, I’ll be chasing clouds.

 

 

 

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