Looking out at the sky and noticing the complete change, in the course of an hour, from sunrise to now – from a clear bright-green horizon and a great flying wedge of dark cloud streaked with rose-orange, to this scatter of soft cold clouds against a glaring white ceiling – the gray cloud pattern appears suddenly as a sort of writing. Literally a message. The sky is a constantly changing series of new messages we’re meant to interpret. The interpretation is not a set of words but just the taking in, as much as possible, of that moment. That moment as written.