It is fall in December and the wind is pushing in anger while the branches are fighting their fate and the leaves are swirling in confusion and the sun is ducking to hide from it all.
And then there are the clouds.
Each evening I ascend from Alfons X and politely say hello to them, should they choose to stick around until I come home. But today, I look up and see that they aren't their usual pale white. Today, the are aglow with a slight rose. Perhaps they don't know. Well, of course they don't know - they're clouds. But I can see them and how they have changed from down here. I see their flushed cheeks, despite their radiant crush slinking further into the distance still. But they don't care. They are fluffy, smitten clouds who are retaining their lover's warmth, no matter how fast he may try to run from them. They continue on, a little bit different than they were yesterday, and all the other days I have known them - using the fingers of each ray to keep an eternally tickled pink.
