The last clouds that drift across the valley after the great choruses of thunder, the menageries of lightning, the concerts of rain against metal, water and stone, these orphans roll above bringing brief scatterings of shade sometimes no larger than a backyard or car, their bodies of gravity defied water clinging to tiny leaves,insect wings and dust
they ride in the quiet, in the settling, in the denouement , almost missing the crowd, the solid dark skies slate with the rain and storm, stragglers to miss the event for miles till they evaporate.
But perhaps this is the folly of a human skyward view, the anthropomorphizing tick toward simply humble bits of wind, moisture, agitation of atmosphere, the paintings of color and form in the blue.
Nothing less , nothing more.
