And the clouds were high enough to catch the sun, leaving canyons of darkness where the sky was open. The opposite of being earthbound, that sadness that befalls us when we raise our eyes to the obfuscation of azure. There will be no pleasure of moon and stars. But this glorious opposite, this pleasure of wanting more clouds, brilliantly billowing, climbing higher to keep the light aloft, and with it, a sense of awe. Of what remains grounded, wings clipped or unwilling, only gods ascend. Or, perhaps, dreams as we chase them, into the past or future, moments to which we cling and pin our hopes. All that we cannot resurrect, all that has yet to come, illuminated by sunlight on climbing water vapor. That sense of thanksgiving, always, for seeing the world as it is. The dust of others, ancients, the beloved, mine. The gift of renewal.