REALITY?: Evening Story

Rarely do I sit out back in evening, but tonight, a book, a coffee mug and I are drawn to wet-washed early evening sky and cooling air. Brightest blue with just a touch of ochre from the sun, and who or what, I wonder, made the clouds the subtle shades of slate to white? Rarer still, this sudden ache for brush and paint and paper when the popcorn puffs and lines and swirls go by. Cluster clouds are best for finding faces, gargoyles easiest of all because they lend themselves to all the frilly frowns and hairdos.

Every second ticking by, a change is in the painting. Darkest clouds beneath the fluffy white of stratused angel wings. These smokey wisps are rising from the horizon. Evidence to my imagination that they come from brimstone factories far below.

Unprepared to reconstruct and capture in a still, these moving pictures, I watch, and sip my coffee until it’s gone, noting sadly that I haven’t read a word. Realizing that my tongue has darted out a time or two to catch a drip just as it rolls down Willie’s forehead. Too, a little guilty with the pleasure in the knowing I have lingered with a lick upon his cheek.

Given to me by my sister, graced with image and abandon of the rules of prim behavior, my Willie mug and I share evening light.