the clouds against the suburban horizon are still (unmoving), frozen as if performing the tableaux of some dance, their watercolour oranges spiral and fan
into the empty blue bell above.
this so takes your breath away that, in your exhiliration, you begin to run, each foot hitting the pavement with a sound who's only echo is that of evening birds.
the sheaf of english trial exams clutched in your hands, become white birds, flapping wildly as you run, they are trying to fly away.
in your room, you rummage through drawers for your forgotten camera. by the time you are back on the bitumen (your brother trailing behind on his bike), the cloud