Moon and Clouds

In the far valleys lay sleeping clouds, not woken by the closeness of the waxing shiny moon, brightened in the blue-yellow sky by the rising of the sun. It was a Saturday in November as far as I remember, all the raindrops left to dry on twigs from the yesterday also shone in the light of the moon, as if to hang onto their night dreams before swooning down to the earth and sinking into their anonymous resting places, taking with them their memories of the night and how bright they had felt gliding along the smooth grass stems and swathing across the warmed roofs of houses, glazing everything in silver and black.

Now the sun, with a wide brush, has painted the woods green again, a vivid green and with its yellow casts a spell and makes us think of Spring. The pin-cushion of the hills of dark spruce, pierce the pallid sky but no blood sprouts from the balloon of blankness, the vault of the heavens. Slowly the clouds have crept out of their beds, almost surreptitiously, having also clung to their nights rest reluctant to leave the waters of the valleys, torn as if carded like wool as they rise on the needles of the trees and then disappear into the ether of the air. 

But no, see, there is a cloud formed, while I wasn't looking, it hangs over the opposite hill trying to mimic the shape of that hill, the underside is grey but the sun creams it atop, there's even a hint of pink as it blushes, its presence creating a stir among the onlookers who hope it will remain beautifully, silently sailing on its voyage, and not develop angrily black to repeat yesterdays canopy of dampness and rain.

And the moon has paled into insignificance at the blatant shower of light that has filled the skies around her, she moves slowly, a white blob in the firmament. Disgraced and shy, melting into the sky like a spent ice cream. 

4 p.m. The pressed leaves were the decoration today 15th Nov 2008, the trees towering over us beside the path, the steam rising in the morning sun, from trees and rocks, I said that the camouflaged ant heaps where snowed on looked like bald heads conspicuously whitened, then I found a giraffe's tail with some black woollen stuff fixed to it (a childs toy?) and a one kroner piece, money in the far off forests? 

What looked like the same cloud still hung over the hill opposite in the evening but now it was pink on the sunny side, and making for the hills again to bed down in the valley and keep moist for the morrow!

This was part of a letter in 2008.