I love the adolescent moodiness of March. Today's sky was March at her best. A fresh clean starched blue all day long. A few clouds forming rick-rack around the edges. The air almost warm. The sun so bright that it brought tears to my eyes that weren't entirely joy.
By the time I got home to walk, the clouds had taken over. But not the heavy suffocating wool of winter clouds. These were the first clouds born of spring.
The western sky was obliterated by gray-blue cobwebby sheets hanging clear to the ground. They waved with restless energy, their general demeanor ominous and threatening. A large flock of sky sheep grazed the hills of the eastern horizon. Overhead was a theater of cloud shapes begging for a summer audience of still bodies lying in sweet grass interpreting the ever-shifting stories.
As I set out on my walk, the clouds decided to have some fun with me. Random hailstones tapped my head and shoulders, with surprising gentle playfulness. Giant splatty raindrops hit the pavement around me, missing me, but not by much.
The grand finale as I headed home was so close that longer arms than mine could have reached out and touched it. The top was whipped cream just before it becomes butter, filling the entire north sky. The bottom, a slice of blueberry cake Paul Bunyan might have been willing to share with Babe. The sky behind had become a bright blue Fiesta Ware plate.
Tomorrow's sky could easily become dead, dense wool again. It is March after all. Which also means the lush, energetic fertility of the new spring sky won't be held at bay for long.
photo from Flickr