There is a large wedge-shaped white cloud that hovers over the hill I see from my office window. The sky is light blue. The wind is strong and the wheat colored coastal grass bends with the breeze. As hard as the wind blows, the cloud is frozen in place. It has perched there unmoving for the past fifteen minutes.
But this is an illusion.The wind will cease or change direction. It is useless to cling to the beauty of an image. It will pass. Worse, it will morph or cease to exist.
We cannot know clouds anymore than we can know tomorrow. All we have is this moment and even that will move on. The moment in which I began this post is already history. The thoughts I held then are already gone. Life’s actions appear solid, but they too are ephemeral, losing their vivacity with the passing of still more moments.
Writing those moments is a chance to cast them into permanence. But the words too are wistful and fleeting and it is often the grandest of all heartbreaks to chase those illusive clouds.
I steal another glance at the wedge-shaped cloud. It has not moved, but then, I have. Who knows when we shall meet again, my cloud and I.