One morning, driving along the river, outside my neighbourhood, I witnessed the rapid welcome of a brilliant, melancholy, antique cloud. It descended at an angle from the unlimited above, with its measure of a western direction. I wanted to stop. At 7:00 in the morning with no temperature, few people appear on the street. A homeless man, waiting for warm coffee forgot about warmth and stood to face the cloud. People steamed from doorways of vapour and pointed their heads to the sky–all looking at this visiting cloud. I wanted to stop. Its ambiguous form coiled in renaissance detail. In furiously cracking oils, it dripped controlled goose feather greys and fox browns inward. But the fury acted upon itself only for form and not malice. People watched fairy tales tumble to saturated rooftops. Street stones lightened their press toward Earth. The cloud hovered toward a sheet of sun that pushed the opposing flat expanse of concrete nimbostratus, which would swallow the awe. I wanted to stop but it was gone and I continued slowly.