This morning I am enjoying my first cup of coffee outside. Two days after the city aerial bombed us with poison, there are no mosquitoes. I am skeptical, still waiting for a sting, and worried the war on mosquitoes has destroyed all life in my back yard.
Thankfully I see a dragon fly buzzing around the pool seemingly unaffected.
The temperature, still warm, has a hint of fall tucked within the slight breeze. Is it my imagination? I watch the clouds overhead. They watch me.
As kids, we spent hours flat on our backs in the front yard studying the clouds. Our grass blanket itched and stuck to our sweaty legs, but we didn’t mind. Cloud gazing, an impromptu cool down from cartwheels or freeze tag, wasn’t planned in advance, so a quilt was never considered.
We called out the shapes of animals and objects like a game of I Spy. A dog. A rabbit. A donut. A boat. White and fluffy, the clouds adding color to sunset. I wondered where the clouds ended up after drifting over Mississippi County.
Overhead, thin airplane vapors were always exciting to see. At the top of the sky, curving, never stopping in Arkansas. I imagined where the lucky people were going. I imagined where I would go.
Today I see the remains of jet vapor – a straight line with hash marks. A white picket fence. A railroad track. I imagine where the busy people are going. I am content to be drinking coffee. I imagine I am not the only one. Just watching.
You must not blame me if I do talk to the clouds. Henry Thoreau