A lone beach ball trickled down the sand, salt smothered and wrinkled. On a brighter day perhaps the wan plastic would have shone, but beneath the low grey sky it was so very shadow-eaten. And all the way to the edge of the cold tide, its roll was a grainy sigh. Then it was there, upon the white fringe, negotiating its transition to the deep.
This morning, each sole upon the street, each soul riding upon the clouds, ever warm in that bright sunlight.
The cloudy morning brings a gentle diffuse light that soothes the eyes and gives space for my soulful musings.
The cloudy morning is shafts of light amide the blue-grey and the soft promise of sweet rain.
The cloudy morning brought the blacktop street to dappled hues that spoke of soulful blues.
On this morning the clouds diffuse the daylight to a soft gentle sweetness; even out in the street I could be cozy under my duvet in a strong summer light. They move much as the ocean, showing the blue amid the whitish dove-grey, a medley of silvers that ripple outwards to adorn the sky.
On this cloudy morning there are growing patches of blue, the sort of hue that is soft and bright at the same time. Though beneath the sheet of cloud is a grey that deepens to steel, the leading edge is a brilliant white, as if it is the pages of a new book ready for any curious eye. So, on this day that could bring rain or sunshine, I'm hoping for both, for the chance of a rainbow and to feel so much more because the day is blessed with clouds.
The clouds were arranged as neatly as child's toys, scattered over blue, content to drift where they fell. The morning sun had the potential to bring a day as hot as yesterday, but those wonderful puffs of white radiated it back out into space. The air was cooler, the colours less vivid and all without a drop of rain.
Light grew steadily outside until the curtains glowed just the same as stained glass. Eddie stuck his head behind the fabric to survey what the day might bring. The road was slick with water, though the puddles remained quite still, no hint of rain still falling. Above the clouds were still grey but without the denseness of yesterday, allowing patches of blue to form.
Clouds move in the morning sky, kissed into brilliant white by the sun. They move south toward the ocean, together yet independent. Gaps widen and close, one slides right under another and always they are changing shape.
The morning brings strings of white stratus to contrast against the blue sky. They drift lazily in the breeze without destination or purpose, as if every day for the clouds is a Sunday afternoon.
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