It is 7 a.m. on a mid-week summer day. The morning sun's pale rays skim through a stand of trees toward the northeast. It is warmer out here on the deck than I thought it would be when I woke to the sound of a blustery breeze pushing against my bedroom shade.

"Sky Over St. Thomas, V.I." by Lisa Black

I look up to check the sky for signs of a weather change. Low layers of dark gray clouds move swiftly across the heavens, the edges of one lit peach by the post-dawn daystar. These clouds cannot move under their own power: They are pushed forward. Or, is it backward? To the side? Or, to no particular direction at all? The swiftness surprises me, and the gracefulness moves me.

Do I feel my spirit soaring with the clouds as they gallop overhead? No. I am an observer, noting that with the passage of mere minutes, the gloomy clouds have made their exit and a transparent white veil now mutes the sky into a watercolor wash of bleached blue. Next, fragments of cumulus contrast cerulean rents in the veil. Air flows in constant motion; clouds streak and separate; wind-rustled leaves quiet morning bird-song.

What is the metaphor here? Is it about impermanence? How everything changes moment by moment? Is it about how the winds of change sweep thorough our lives, bringing stormy black clouds, then serene white, and then brilliant azure sky?

I witness the dancing wisps of vapor above. I struggle, wanting to see visions in them, to conjure pictures of animals, faces, landscapes. I wish to organize Nature's random patterns, systematize, arrange, label — create meaning.

I turn my gaze from up to out — observe summer's rich green leaves shaken free from their hold, careening downward. They do not drop like stones; it looks as if each is its own parachute. They cavort on currents before landing, reaching earth where they will decompose to join it. My heart calls out: No! This free-fall down to death is much too soon; it is only mid-July, not riper September.

Beyond the trees, I see boats anchored in Mt. Sinai harbor. This morning, they all face southeast. I've noted this phenomenon before — how individual boats align themselves via currents of air and water. Closer to shore, clammers clad in hip-high rubber boots rake through pungent mud to unearth treasures of mussels.

As the slate-gray horizon fades to a whisper, I recall my sister Margie's recent birthday wish for me: "May your horizons always expand."

May yours do the same. And, may you ride your winds of change with ease and excitement.

Bio:
Anne Kelly-Edmunds enjoys her view on Long Island, New York. You can reach her at: annekellyedmunds@hotmail.com