It’s a blue sky day here, the kind of blue you usually see after a bitter storm has pissed its ways through the heavens. It’s been grey here for too many days, the days free falling into gloomy grey, one after another after another. Rinse and repeat, nothing new to see here.
Until today. No today, the sky is blue, and I think if Salvador Dali were painting it, it would be grey and white with porkchops sitting on pillows that looked like clouds because that would make as much sense as today.
And in places where the sky seeks shelter from what it sees below, I can only imagine the view.
But I am a realist, not a surrealist, so today, I can only paint the sky grey with clouds hanging at half mast. Because blue sky today seems unearned.
And so I paint. And I listen to my windchimes flutter in the wind and like toll bells, ring off the names of departed souls in distant lands.
And I pray. I pray for legitimate skies, skies that are blue and make me squint, skies that don’t appear surreal in today’s light.