They’re fluffy. They’re fun to look at. Sometimes if you squint hard enough or have a big enough mind you can see something else in them. When they’re angry, they rumble and blacken and pour on you. You know when they’re angry, though sometimes they can hide it pretty well.
Some clouds take up space and stretch for miles and miles, some move slow, some move fast, some cross the horizon for a second or two then dissipate. Some run into each other, some fuse together, some separate. Sometimes a tinier cloud comes from two bigger clouds.
Sometimes it can seem like there’s only one or two clouds in the sky, just drifting along the blue, but there’s always a couple lingering just beyond the horizon, slowly making their way to join the other. They’re never really alone.
Technically, biologically and scientifically, each cloud is unique. But the more clouds you see, the more they all look the same. The differences are quite trivial.
You can look at clouds one day, then not notice any the next. Or you can be sitting outside during sunset, maybe with a sweating tea in your hand, and notice how all the clouds form together nicely, how crisp their peaks are and how silver their color is, how the space between them lets in this golden light, how beautiful they are, and how glad you are that they’re there.
Or you might hate clouds, and think they take up too much space. You might think the sky looks better empty and plain; that, at a certain point, clouds become merely gratuitous decoration. Maybe, you sometimes think, everything would be a lot better if there were fewer clouds in the sky. For one, the views would be better, and two, there wouldn’t be any such thing as a “cloudy” day.
That alone sells you on the whole idea.
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