I saw her in the sky; shaped like a cloud, she was laying on her back, without underpants, her legs spread wide open.

She slid past the swan.

She is sometimes gracious.

I wondered if she knew that I made pictures from the clouds in the sky and that the canvas was incredibly telling.

Yesterday, the earths ceiling was a mirror of my heart – a radiant blue with a passing of nebulosity. The changing shapes danced and turned, sometimes upside down, sometimes sideways but she was unmistakable when she drifted by. She was the right way around, her legs agape. Oversized and over emphasized. Her bits reminded me of a giant fig; tempting and suggestive in the oddest form. I felt my cheeks flush slightly. I should look away.

He interrupted my thoughts with a sprinkle of reality.

“All of those clouds are water. It’s amazing really isn’t it? They’re all pockets of water particles.”

I reclined on the grass and considered the possibility of a large sky pocket ripping apart and emptying its contents all over us.

“Do you think it might rain?”

His pockets were always full. He carried the little things that mattered. Odd screws from the garage, little plastic arms from the children’s toys he’d thought about fixing and a lighter for my cigarettes. Each time I loaded the washing machine, I emptied his pockets.

I was never surprised by what I found and I was sure that if he could, he’d fit an amusing and artistic cloud into his favourite blue jeans for me; a gift for the girl he loves. I imagine that throughout his busy day, he would’ve collected it from the sky, right after he’d fixed the fence, mowed the lawn or fed the fish. He was selectively forgetful like that; he rarely emptied his pockets, though he always remembered to love me like nobody else ever had.

The reality was, I know he’d never attempt to fit her into the pocket of his jeans, no matter how incredible her shape. No matter how possible it might ever be.

That cloud would never do.

Not with all of her angst and nervous energy. Not a chance with her unpredictable behaviour. Her cloud was far too wild for him. It changed cast remarkably often and was filled with the selfish manic behaviour of a sky army.

He was a man of honour. He enjoyed his comforts of dependability. He didn’t need the likes of her to spill her wet contents all over his perfectly clean view. She always made things unclear, smudged and streaked with unnecessariness.

She was a concern.

I cared too much about her and when I saw her yesterday, gravitating across my sky with her limbs spread eagled and her head thrown back, it reminded me of all of the reasons why I couldn’t trust her completely.

Close your legs and come down from the sky.

She was selfish.

That’s the thing about clouds. They don’t mind emptying themselves onto us. They don’t consider plans or rules or manners. They saunter across a perfect summer sky in the form of a dirty great black mass. They like to gather and collect grit and yesterdays and cause anyone who cares enough to worry. They make shapes of themselves and try to disguise what is obvious to everyone.

She does that too.

I’m not sure who she is anymore and to be safe, I won’t dare to look into the sky for too long this afternoon.

Today I see only blue.

© ryan