July slips off the page and August is spinning. Recent heavy rains pressed stalwart purple cone flowers and yellow-eyed daisies to the ground. Stems no longer have the oomph to pick themselves up. Flower heads are quickly turning to seed, ready for a bird’s feast. Yellow and gold mums begin to appear in sun lit garden spots. Walnuts in heavy green husks fall from trees and the squirrels are running in circles. A waning summer saturates my senses.

On deliciously slow afternoons I ease onto my front porch rocker, a cup of mint, jasmine, or lady earl grey with lavender tea in hand, ready to watch the clouds write stories in the sky. On the blue story board, narratives unfold in subtle puffs, the main character always a giant of a figure – the Michelin man, a prehistoric flying fish, a fiery dragon with three hind legs, or a massive amoeba swallowing every creature in its path. The hero in the story can transform its powers with a passing breeze. The Michelin man sprouts wings; with a single wave the fish becomes a fleet of sea horses. Remember Poppin Fresh, the Pillsbury dough boy? He rides in on a magic carpet, warning of an impending storm. A clueless puppy flying on all fours plays nearby. My cloud stories have a Hallmark ending, every one playing nice with everyone else by the time it is over. Wait long enough or hardly any time at all, the scenery changes and another story begins. Nature promises an endless narrative.