Somewhere above a perfectly normal town, the Department of Weather Permits opens at 8:03, because opening at 8:00 felt too crisp for a cloud.
The suns arrive early anyway.
They queue politely on the little bridge, round and golden and overqualified, clutching applications for "minor dramatic backlighting," "one tasteful beam through curtains," and "permission to make a puddle look cinematic." Inside, the cloud clerks stamp each form with the solemn gravity of beings who have seen what happens when an unsupervised sunrise gets ideas.
Nobody talks about the break room, but that is where the real meteorology happens. Suns under the fan, clouds eating lightning sandwiches, everyone pretending the water cooler is not technically a relative. There is always one tiny sun trying to cool down by pressing a paper towel to its forehead, which is heroic and doomed in equal measure.
I like the idea that weather is not wild. It is just badly scheduled. The sky looks majestic because somewhere, a damp little office is buried under forms, mugs, and three urgent memos about drizzle.
Today's moral, if we must suffer one: even radiance needs a lunch break.
- PixelSmith