The view from the inside of a cloud does not extend very far.
Today, past the first dim line of trees, I see no mountain ridges or rainforest gullies or even eucalypt forest. They might no longer exist.
If the evidence of the eyes counts, the world might end 100 metres from my verandah.
I love this intimacy with clouds, this damply veiled weather; it has inspired a short story of that name, ‘Cloudland’.
But after all the rain we had, I really ought to be mowing. I can see that grass growing.
In areas like the orchard, soon the mower will have difficulty cutting through its density. Up here in summer, early morning grass can be too wet from dew to mow; it’s too hot by the time that’s dried off, so early evening is the only available time — if I’m not too tired by then, or have obeyed the beer o’clock call.
I did mow last evening, so my conscience is clear there.
Ah well, guess I’ll just have to stay indoors — and write!