Florida skies are the most beautiful in the world.
The clouds hang low and full as if trying to reach people under them, daring them to look at their starring moments. And their moments are fast and furious as they shape-change, blend, darken, lighten, rise, dissipate, and disappear. Most of the time, they challenge the imagination: is that the flying ghost of prehistoric tyrannosaurus rex making love to a mallard? That must be the lovers Eros and Psyche running away from an evil clown with whiskers? A pantheon of Norse gods must be meeting this evening with beautiful Freya presiding at their banquet table.
My son says the clouds are "in your face" because Florida is below sea level. That makes sense as water evaporates, condenses, and travels skies and land and rivers before returning to the ocean. It's all there: cumulus, stratus, altostratus, nimbostratus... It's all there: steamy white desert landscapes, tracks of snowy blizzards... The clouds frame the moon and play hide and seek with the sun, which streaks them in orgasmic glaze when it sets across the horizon. Even this spectacle is the sun's sexy play and penetration of the puffy white monsters that bleed a red-orange haze of pleasure.
Once I witnessed my favorite cloud, the grey/black, angry nipple cloud, always filled with rain and lightening--palpitating, striking and pouring its sons and daughters over cars and pavement--drench a convertible with an open top and its driver who spoke on a cellphone while disregarding the raining nipple; that is until his car's interior got soaked, and he stopped along the highway, turned on the emergency lights, and raised his canvas top in surrender.
Read my exciting memoir, "The Continent of Ruby," available at:
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