It's an afternoon worthy of Pooh -- blustery and wild.
The clouds, puffs of translucent white, scuttle across the sky.
They seem to be in a rush, racing across the turquoise canvas, casting a swirl of shadows on the baby grass outside my window. (Grasslets?)
I wonder if they see the glory surrounding them.
I wonder if the frenzied pace they are keeping distracts them from the sunlight which makes them sparkle as golden as the sand.
Hurry does that, you know. The destination is the prize, not the journey. There is no room for purposefulness when you are pushed along at the whims of the wind.
The clouds, these vaporous whispers, these creations of God, they don’t know that I’m studying them through the glass. They aren’t aware that I’m watching their breakneck tumble.
But I do.
And I am not unaware of the urgent winds which push and pull me.
I wonder how much glory I miss.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.