This morning the sky was full of fuss — wisps dragging like the hems of skirts, others hurrying along in neat little lines as if late for a meeting. One great stack sat stubborn and grey, refusing to move on, while the smaller ones kept darting around it like children trying to get past in a narrow hall.

I lay on the bench for longer than I meant, watching them arrange and rearrange themselves as though rehearsing for a play.

I couldn’t work out the story, but there was something reassuring in their bustle. They looked so determined to be somewhere, and yet all they could do was drift.