Today I saw a bank of white clouds in an otherwise deep blue summer sky. They started out as a small rolling band off to the left of my panorama, and gradually grew with time and distance. Illumined by the afternoon sun, they were playful, never threatening. I tried to see figures in their forms–a face, a finger pointing toward the way back; eventually I just let them be themselves. This was on I-87, while I was riding south, home, to New York City.
The clouds themselves seemed to change direction with every bend in road, bringing something new–undefined and breathtaking–to the ride. As they did, the sky that embraced them was so blue as to chase away all other blues. It was a hopeful sky, a sky of promise, a sky of tomorrow–alluring and persuasive.
There was just that one cloud finger pointing toward the way back, indicating the direction from which I’d come, that gave me pause, while other cars sped around mine.