Staring across the fog-green valley, he rests on the smoothed sandstone which is cold against his denim. He knows the silvery mass of cloud looms gently above. He saw it approaching before; now it is grazing across the valley where he lives.
A scattering of cobbled homes perch along the valley’s ridge, some pattered off into the valley’s depth. It’s light out. Everything is colored, rich, yet muted with slight gray tinges. Time has not stopped; the ever-travelling cloud ensures that fact, but he wonders how well he could convince himself otherwise if he imagined carefully enough.
Will it rain, will it pass? The cloud just continues to heave itself over the valley, pregnant with gray wet. He says nothing to himself, or to the cloud, or to the staggering few passersby. He is met with mutual, uneventful silence.
Everyone is quiet. The cloud offers little reprieve; hardly a muttered rumble is heard. It edges along, melding and forming, morphing and growing, shrinking and shirking. It could release its weight like a hydrant across the valley to saturate the greens deeper. It could withhold and grant its droplets across another man’s nape elsewhere.
He could feel the droplets pierce his skin, but the cloud had yet to rain. He could see the cloud moved far off into the distance, onto the next valley, but the cloud had yet to float that far. He could feel the reality of either outcome.
Yet neither outcome came.
There was nothing to say. It wouldn’t change anything, and there was nothing of which to apply commentary. That he knew.
He wasn’t even sure if it mattered whether or not it rained.
He gazes upon the valley. He knew the cloud was above. Its shadow stagnated. He ponders calmly.
Will it rain, will it pass?
His mind clears.
He waits for the answer to transpire.
He waits for the answer.