Waiting for the bus on a crisp lovely morning, I see a dozen or more lines across the sky, crisscrossed and fluffy-white. Some are narrow, most, wide with varying edges; undulating cords across the heavens. Are they all made by planes? Perhaps. Maybe the temperature and humidity are just right for these trails to linger and weave strands across the firmament. Some might be clouds. It’s a beautiful pattern of lines and bars some spiraling, others, cottony swaths slathered across the deep blue morning sky. The rising sun heats the nearest lines white hot, glowing, brilliant over the east, turning cotton to white gold, an alchemy I long for.
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