Strange Skies

Strange skies all around us tonight.

Up north and west, shadows move and reform like gods battling just over the horizon that mortals know. A wisp of cumulonimbus could be a divine bicep smiting an enemy. The flat flinty flickering spark lights up the baleful bruise of sky. Great torrents of gray sadness smear the somersault sky up ahead. Having already been perfected, heaven finds petty violations to complain about, its under-breath grumbles getting louder. Meanwhile, in the south and east, harmless little clots of clouds drift over a sky boring and blank, like nothing ever happened.

All of it passes, quarrels settling reluctantly into something approaching understanding. I wait for the skies to take a bow.