Thunderheads, a layer of paint on the sky’s canvas, are thick and unbroken. Like a handpainted bowl, the clouds are stripes around the horizon. The rich colors are the sloppy mixing of paints on a palette: bluestone to periwinkle, mauve to rose, all shot through with gold. The faintest white puffs float down to encircle the blue mountains, hiding their peaks in fog. The grass and trees are vivid green, fading to emerald as the sparse sunbeams are chased westward. The air is heavy, laden with recent rainfall and the prospect of more. Though the clouds have no mouth, they will speak soon enough, and flashes of lightning will dance. The day dies, but the storm cannot; it builds, it waits, it dominates.