WINTERS COMING

        The cloud bank appeared as though an unknown seamstress had just spread her quilt batting upon the midnight sky.  I watched from my old porch stoop, coffee cup in hand, as it took flight on the northward winds.
     What once appeared as a solid white blanket, thick with endless rows of ridges, became less perfect as it drifted overhead. 
     Evident were the ravages of its journey; the frayed edges, gaping holes, and tears in the canopy highlighted by the very Moon it was attempting to obscure. 
     One by one the stars in its path above were swallowed into it's mass.  Begrudgingly the endless white gave way to an occasional and fleeting glimpse of the midnight sky, replete with a chorus of flickering starlight it had so completely commandeered. 
     Only the moons illumination vaguely penetrated the drifting tufts just above the leafless tree line. 
     These aren't just any clouds; majestic and finely aged, like something from a Renaissance painting, cold weather is their cargo and Winter their destination.