The mountains are bare, pudges of white and darkened by their trees, yes, but the mountains are brown and bare. The weather is already strangely warm, the forerunning beams of sunrise instantaneously lighting endless housing, piles of raw dirt and construction equipment. The bloated hand of man burgeons further even as it feels like the hour of the death of the world. Now from the left pinks glow in the belly of the cloud and sky brightens, eyes ache and pupila narrow, the sky is the color of ice. Like loam the cirrostratus is churned with color and the the leftside sky is now subsumed by hills, which became white and green some time ago.

Such writing feels like conceptual sketching, laying down strokes of the swirling (plodding, dull?) mind, the concepts spill out of the English language. Let me write as I draw and draw as I write...

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In the throes of winter...well, perhaps it is not timely, yet see the seasons fly: cloud watching. Driven by familiar and rare winds, clouds move and morph, layers coalesce and cleave, the vast lands of the cloud kingdoms dance. Under the sky, sit or lie and watch the sublime dance.

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