I stared at reams of paper and thick tomes full of dry information for most of today; having come to a point where studying yielded no further information, and feeling fairly confident that I am prepared for tomorrow's lab exam, I went outside to gaze at the clouds massed pillowing on the moonlit horizon.
When I was a little girl and read Roald Dahl’s "James and the Giant Peach" for the first time, I was greatly impressed with one scene described and illustrated – the peach and its denizens floating soundlessly among a great host of mountainous clouds, silvered by the moon. I dreamed – I dreamed constantly – of being among clouds like that, silent and limned with moonlight, rounded and towering and perfectly delineated, as if drawn with a fine silver brush, and washed gently with shadow.
Those clouds live here.
Afternoon breezes can carry ships and castles and plumes, towers and spires and great winged creatures, stretching feathered talons to land. This evening's clouds were drawn from my imagination, brilliant and perfect, mounded like ice cream scoops melting slowly in the warm air, climbing the night sky like a quilted ladder to the stars.
I still dream of flying.