Is it possible that clouds, when the winds are right and sun is in a playful mood, invent games to fill the sky with spins and traces?
These are the kind of cool, yet sun-laced, days when it just doesn't feel adequate to be mere puffy cotton balls.
Do they play together, lightly laying air-light filaments over each other's nuanced sketches? Slowly, layer upon layer, do they trace these hints of gossamer threads sewn into weightless linens?
In the end, some emotion, some feeling, not before known, whispers its new, worldly beginnings.
We can watch, I suppose, but never really know the brio these venturers brush upon the sky. Unless, we let go the cares which ground us, and become volants ourselves -- time-free and earth- unbound.