Clouds

"Look at those shadows!"
I pull over and we watch.
We both like the clouds.

Yesterday E and I were driving in to Santa Fe, and, as is often the case, we were overwhelmed by the 360 degrees of awesome presented by the skies. A storm was coming in, and the clouds were building up, but each angle had a different guise. To the east were summer picnic skies, fluffy single clouds massing together, smiling over the fields. Over the mountains were soft striated grey clouds, lined in front of the piled up thunder clouds which towered high overhead. The blues of the skies were accentuated by the white clouds. The layered white cumulus clouds gathered behind the sharply ridged Cerrillos Hills, with one patch an almost ivory color, another grey-white, another popcorn white. I had to stop to take a few pictures, but of course there is no way to capture the huge overhead expanse, and no way to avoid the telephone wires and other man-made ugliness. It's dwarfed to insignificance in real life, but pops out when framed in a camera.

I started singing cloud songs.  First that came to mind was Simon and Garfunkel:  "Cloudy, the sky is grey and white and cloudy, sometimes I think it's hanging down on me...."  No, that's not right.  "Bows and flows of angel hair, and ice cream castles in the air..."  Better, "but now they only block the sun..." Aaaargh.

Songs about clouds are
Melancholy. Why is that?
Write a joyful one.

We discussed the dilemma, and she promised that if I wrote the lyrics, she would set them to music.  So, today I went through the cloud pictures and haiku that I have posted since moving to New Mexico.  I realized that few, if any, give that top-of-the-world feeling I get when I look up and out over the landscape and catch my breath, and I want to dance across the mountain tops and leap into the sky and, and, and...

It's so soft and powerful and textured and distinct and....there's no one word to describe it, because of the infinite variety.   Herewith, my attempts to capture the ineffable.

Bundled in my robe.

The morning wind greets the sun

And tickles my toes.

Delicate pastel

Pink and blue, with an edgy

Mountainous Border

Tonight's sunset is

Brought to you by cloud shadows

And a slight chill breeze

All is still except

The skies and the flitting wings.

My bare feet are cold.

The birds and I watch

The slow, deliberation

Of a spinning globe

From pink to dull grey
In thirty precious seconds.
I wear a towel.

I don't think I'll tire,

Ever, Of New Mexico skies.

So very textured.

Went to sleep with rain

Woke up to clouds in deep blue

The deck chairs are wet

I text "Look outside!"

"Welcome to New Mexico,"

He texts back to me

Clouds, like snowflakes, have

An endless variety.

Must be the water.

Will I ever lose

My joy in these awesome skies?

My heart flies to them.

Thunder from the hills

And rain over Santa Fe.

I read Gengi's Tale.

Got home just in time:

Crashes and cataracts now.

It's quite impressive.

Rain clouds and rainbows:

She swerves, pointing to the moon.

But I'm not frightened.

We watch cloud patterns.
"An O'Keeffe painting," I think.
"It's like fish!" She says.

Crazy amoeba cloud;
The sunset was amazing

But defied capture.

It's supposed to rain 
But I don't see no nimbus.
Reckon I'll just wait.

I glance up and stare,

Transfixed by the subtlety

Of the final light.

It is difficult

To drive in these conditions.

I guess I'm in love.

Clouds after the snow

I rotate for 360

It fills up my heart.

Snow on the mountains
Clouds in the sky, dark and light.
I can't drive and watch

Bundled in my robe.

The morning wind greets the sun

And tickles my toes.

Soft spiral billows

It's not a tornado cloud

I ponder the source

One hour spent watching

Clouds transforming with the dawn.

Always something new.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now....

When I meet people for the first time and tell them I just moved here from Portland, OR, they look at me in disbelief.  "Why?" they say, and my stock response is, "For the green chili stew and a library system that will hire me."  They laugh, but retain their skepticism, screened behind polite smiles and small talk about the city.  So many of them have friends and relatives in the Pacific NW, and they commiserate with me about the dryness, the heat, the lack of green.

They don't get it when I tell them I love the high desert.  I love the rocks, in all their fantastical shapes and colors.  Most of all, I love the big sky and the myriad forms the clouds take in that clear blue, the blue that seems to shimmer with light, the blue that goes from sky-blue to deep indigo.

Now, coming from the rainy city, I am no stranger to clouds.  But these clouds are something special.  Arching over a landscape as big and fantastical as themselves, in one day they can range from fluffy popcorn to towering fortresses.  They can be white cotton, scattered on glowing blue background.  They can be cumulonimbus clouds, louring over the mountains, sometimes shot through with lightning, sometimes streaming grey streaks of rain along the desert horizon.  They are so much more than a response to changes in barometric pressure and moisture.

The other day I came out of work into the early evening light.  Directly overhead, the leading edge of a cloud bank stretched in a slanting line across a clear blue sky.  To the east, the Sandia range was buried in grey.  To the west, the city and the desert glowed yellow-orange.  I stood at the demarcation of storm and sun, marveling.

During the monsoon season, the clouds come up quickly and dissipate even more quickly.  In the morning, I can watch the sun rise over the Sandia range, the thin layer of popcorn clouds turning pink, orange-red-purple, grey-white, white.  It's going to be a beautiful sunny day.  10 hours later, the dime-sized rain drops hiss on the hot pavement, splatting out of the overhead grey, heralded by thunder and lightning.  The parking lot becomes a lake, the arroyos and streets, rivers.  Waterfalls from the roof are framed by every window.  Customers huddle by the doorways, looking into the sheets of rain.  "I think I'll look for another book," they say.  Half an hour later, the lakes are rapidly-drying puddles, and a brilliant double rainbow spreads across the east, where the clouds and rain still linger.  The mountains are blue-grey, showing through the prism as a simple clean line.  The end of the rainbow seems close enough to touch.

There are times the clouds seem to be perfectly picked to outline the rocks and hills and reflect the sun.   They have that picturesque thing down.  And even when I am depressed with the petty details of my life, with the things that are not going right, I can't help but take in a deep joyful breath when I look up into those clouds.