Cumulus

It was a night where a day’s punctuation can change from a period to an exclamation point in a moment’s edit. Mood, temperature, energy. A miserable July heat stages drama, sky theater, a grand finale of day. The Earth and Sun Show ™. The clouds, a foreshadow of wet fluff —— oracles of weather. 

The sun began its dramatic descent, stretching and reaching and spilling rays of ultraviolet amber. A zipper seam of white bounce, like a child’s drawing. The people ooo’d and the city awwwed. 

They snapped to imprison time as both hard digital memory and squishy biological residue. Wands poised and posed, they now gawked: “Look! Look!” Their eyes burning—

Then a pause from the shifting in the air. Curiosity:

               “Hmmm…—,” the people reacted. 

               “Oh,” said the city. 

“That cloud there—the one in front of the sun—looks like something.”

“A squid…?”

“A mushroom…?

“A fat arrow???”

“No…no.”

“It’s a giant dick.”

There was no “spot the shape” subjectivity here. No idiotic interpretation. The answer was alive, conscious and raw. The people, the city, the people of the city, in near unison, raised their phones with might and omnipotence. The dick cloud shot hot beams, shafts of light, all over the golden hour. 

The humans praised the dick, a hysteria of joy and hilarity. An angelic chorus erupted— 

The dick, on its throne, was a sign of all things absurd and holy. 

This wasn’t just any dick pic, 

this was the rise 

of a new testament.