I looked up from my gardening take-down work a few days ago. This is a motion and habit I make a point to do way more than the average soil-focused workman at the approach of winter.
There I am, a middle-man between earth and sky. How could I ignore one for the other?
I don’t know how long this cloud composition was in the making while I pulled weeds and raked the rows. In several places far apart, the clouds were boiling, purple-gray, and taking loopy surges down into the cloudless layer below.
These are called mammatus clouds for their breast-like resemblance. They struck me more as small-intestinal, with their round-ropy appearance. Sorry if that’s a downer for you. Make up your own body or other parts resemblance to name these clouds to your liking.
The sun made a weak eyespot in the benevolent cloudlet nearest the horizon—a messenger to tell us prophetically and not unlike the wooly worms, that:
By and by, it is going to get more or less cold, windy and wet.
And you can take that to the bank!