nothus_a_um

Last night, I went alone for a run along darkened highways. The light doesn't fade until after midnight, here, and the clouds were each shot through with an odd monochrome radiance. The sky wasn't merely grey, it was huge shifting patchwork of it. An oil-painting of the sea which reflected it, in paints with elements like titanium and zinc in them. I ran until I got to the little fishing village and cruise-ship dock away from Auke Bay, still on the Glacier Highway. I looked out over the water and saw a nothing - but puckered, wrinkled, it was grey spinning towards me. You see, it doesn't really rain here. The mountains channel the clouds, and when they touch ground, everything gets wet. This cloud had laid itself loosely over the islands at the head of the Bay, and then headed inland. Standing out in the open, against the cliff wall of the highway, it slammed into me, and bunched up with nowhere to go. At first it wreathed the ships in the harbor, and then the pier structures - curiously, almost. Tendrils from the main mass, running ahead, acting as scouts. Lost in a million different shades of grey, I sat down on the shoulder of the road, away from cars, and stared out.