I like to watch the sky.
I love how feather-shaped clouds sweep across the blue, temporarily touching up and highlighting the sky, and how some do indeed have gold (not just silver) colored lining, especially those immediately surrounding the sun. I like watching as these disappear, perhaps being magic carpets being skirted away to somewhere else, somewhere where it is still day. I like being greeted by single blotches of pink on an otherwise dull white-yellow horizon. I like the grey. Not the grey that usually consists of a 'cloudy' day, but the dark, charcoal gray, that only pops up at sundown. Sometimes, the sky isn't terribly exciting. I read in Kathleen Norris' Dakota about the emptiness she and the residents of the Dakotas often experience, underneath a terrible, vacant sky, and fields that stretch on as the ocean. "Everything that seems empty is full of the angels of God" St. Hilary. And, even if there isn't much cloud activity in the sky, there are the varying intensities of light, and heat. Before the sun begins its final descent, it catches windows, and magnifies silos and makes the landscape seem that much nearer and farther at the same time. I think the sun has a bit of a sense of humor. Or perhaps the photons of light themselves. They appear to be winking at me. I don't know what this means. It's sort of like the cryptic smile the Mona Lisa wears.