I sit on the backstep

it is six forty in the morning

the sky is a dark blue - but brightening by the minute

there are planes, but for the moment I ignore them

there are clouds - not puffy, not cirrus - perhaps Number Nines? (I have a book which explains that, I'll report back later)

the clouds drift slowly - almost imperceptibly - to the east: the direction in which I'm facing, looking, gazing, watching, waiting

they were dark greyish-purple and as they drift east they brighten to become intense purpley-red - it's a new dawn, a new day. . .

to the south the clouds fill the sky - almost

in the gaps between the clouds the sky brightens to cyan, and then white pinpricks are all that remain of the sky as the clouds gather in intensity

to the north the planes head west, green lights on the furthest wing tip, red lights on the nearest wing tip; head lights beaming out in front and various other white lights flash and blink at me as the planes slowly lower in the sky

*pause for thought*

and now - half past seven - the clouds have almost all gone, above me is a clear pale blue and in front to the east the horizon, behind the rooftops, is a pale orangey-yellow

one solitary cloud remains - a small puffy dark dark grey one