The sun was peaking out for the first time all day. Looming from the right, a gargantuan cloud appeared enormously, compared to the tiny sun. The cloud crept towards. A familiar occurence? one lacking literary long-sight might queerly question. But not this instance of sky-star interaction, oh no, not today would atmo and astro idly pass like trench-coated strangers on a dark bit of street. Today the masterful molecules of vapor split for the warmth of the sun, allowing the frozen feet of anyone found fortunate, to loosen in the ground. Yes, even the earth seemed to moan and quiver as though awoken from her afternoon nap. A solid beam piercing through ethereal Venetian blinds. As the earth rolled over, the cloud stilled. While the child's eye may see many things, staring into the sky upon kelly green fields of grass and clover, to us it looked like a great hand, gently pinching this yellow orb, holding it, and us, in place, as all spade and pitches and men gaped collectively in awe. Just for a moment. Then it dispersed, and the ground retightened its grip on our worn, leather feet, and the cloud behaved like it had revealed an intimate secret to an unworthy listener; with regret. The radiance of the sun began to fall beyond the hills. The tools lost interest, returning to their weary, uncaring lives. Not us. At that moment no wage or woman was wanted. We stood and stared in awe. The scene changed, but the image burned. We blue-collar boys wanted for nothing.
"That was beautiful," someone said.
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