From the horizon in golds and reds, a cloud spans like a great fish rises out of water, mouth open, slick body gleaming in the sun. Perhaps it's a tall fishing tale.
Perhaps it's an old story, an ancient story, this cloud rises from the western horizon. Its underbelly, bathed in setting sun, ripples like a remembered pattern, a trilobite in stone. Now headless yet still reaching eastward, its form reminds.
Yet maybe it's simply the nature of light traveling for minutes to reach here, the nature of water vapor and dust in the atmosphere, the nature of looking out the window as the bus winds along its route. It's sunset. The clouds are lit pretty. Imagination sprints free.
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