Opalescent, marble, morning.

On a humid day lived through these past few weeks, no storm front nearby, clouds are seen from a distance to burgeon, drift and dissipate. Obligations, tasks, errands, deadlines have for years kept my sense of time separate from the aimlessness miles away. For the first time since childhood, I felt as if I were not even moving faster than the clouds, and that I could ruminate on the sky during a hot day in early autumn.

But the muse had only a minute of value, as nobody relies on a child.

There, a lot from the house in which I grew up — the only one on the street. Designed, perhaps, on the notion that burglars would be as blind as us.

Headwind; change course.

If through an interstice, there is still light.

Foliage is more easily noticed, and appreciated, after it goes aureate. That bright green on silver and blue, eclipsed as it may be by summer sights, is still a deciduous in its prime.

I was aiming for dawn — and missed.

The apparent upward pull on the cloud's northerly arm is likely a result of parallax. Still, the sight was enough to draw me to the balcony, camera in hand, so in the open spaces of my memory of snapping yet another picture of the sky is the possibility of that curl being real.

I knew it was illumination, but I saw fire.

All right, it's settled: fall sunrises look the best.