Scudding is a cloud word, he said looking up at the night sky, balmy wind sweeping the soft edges of clouds over the gibbous moon. But these clouds aren’t scudding, because I think that means there’s a hard edge to the front of the cloud, a thunderhead brewing, skipping like a stone on the surface of the atmosphere.

We watched the swirling edge of the storm’s spiral, the clouds pulled by the high fast wind, but only a gentle balmy breeze lifted my hair and waved the remaining maple leaves on the tree.

Racking, then, racking is a cloud word… but it’s not quite the description of these clouds. These clouds look like Chinese dragons, they fly like dreamscape swirled horns and scales and claws. When they pass over the moon it shines a prismatic halo, and they’re flying like music and swirling into nothingness.

A midnight glimpse at an ethereal silver light and violet darkness world.