I'm flying to San Francisco,
Somewhere above Kentucky

The sun has set slowly behind a mountain range of clouds

Anvil Thunderheads tower and flash

The sunset glows through gaps like the embers of a campfire

Cirrus, a passing fog of ice

is the ceiling, and cumulus the floor

The clouds form snowy praries, glaciers and caves and rivers of light

They thrust up like cotton fists

Float past like man-o-wars, their tentacles of rain washing the hidden ground

The bright, thin sky reflected in their wisps.