In the afternoon I watch the clouds drift past the bald peak of Mount Tukuhnikivats. (Someone has to do it.)
Lightning streaks like gunfire through the clouds, volleys of thunder shake the air.
What ideal, immutable Platonic cloud could equal the beauty and perfection of any ordinary everyday cloud floating over, say, Tuba City, Arizona, on a hot day in June?
For there is a cloud on my horizon. A small dark cloud no bigger than my hand. Its name is Progress.
Music clouds the intellect but clarifies the heart.