Sky Phases

Is there anything like a San Francisco sky? Anything as temperamental, as alluring, as unique? It keeps you on your feet. You beg. You wish for sun. You wish for rain. You cry to make it rain. You freeze in a sun dress, just to make it shine. Your first look out the window will not resemble the last. The gray sky is not a storm. The ocean sky has waves. The blue sky is summer. The blue sky is February. Cloudless. The evening commute: a menace. Its fog rolls in over twin peaks, its wind blows a piece of your hair away from you. The night sky is almost clear. There are planes everywhere.

Everyday the San Francisco sky has a different pattern. You say: all the skies in all the world are patterned in clouds-yes-but this one has a voice. Its clouds are not shapes, waiting to be named. An ice cream cone! A girl! A double-decker bus! A girl, eating an ice cream cone, on a double decker bus! No.

That cloud, the one that crawls away from a terrible sun, towards a faraway peak. The one it will climb. The cloud will climb its meant-for peak and I will never see it here again. My first look out the window will not resemble my last. The cloud dances and dances, all night into morning, into another ballroom of sky. There is no hint it's been here or enjoyed itself or cried in hallways. It leaves no trace, no crumb. No piece of ripped lace, not even a dancing shoe.