Words don’t work here. You don’t just see the clouds roll in, encroach. You feel them also. The moist. The chill. But not too chilly, since it’s June. Pictures don’t work either because they are only two dimensions. You want to bring back the stereoscope or wish you hadn’t broken your 3D camera.
You want to invent words for the sound—the dull roar of the city below, like a faraway waterfall. Or a faraway jet engine. Yu think you hear the clouds, but it is only the light breeze captured within your ear. The birds chirp very faintly. You see only a butterfly, rocks, wild flowers, and a trail. The future is not clear—only glimpses when clouds decide to give you a chance. But you don’t need the future. All you need is the next ten steps ahead of you. Then more will reveal itself. (Was that a metaphor? It wasn’t intended to be, but I like it that way.)