This sentence burns deep in the middle of my little heart. Gerard M. Hopkins filled his diary with descriptions of clouds. The old, absurd poet who scribbled Job, broken and wiser than the other friends, has God come down in a whirlwind and ask these types of questions.
I can't think of anything more severe and beautiful.
Clouds are too soon dying works of art - as unique as any mountain or continent.
Who has the wisdom to count these things? I try.
On my best days I slow down.
I watch the sky and see clouds bloom and disappear knowing that each has a name, and that rarely heard.
Birth and death slowly blowing over our own little births and our own little deaths.