A triathlon teammate told about a cycling trip on California's Route 1. He had wheeled along the coast after an intense windstorm and encountered a stretch that appeared to be covered in fresh, green walnuts. Actually, the beginnings of a salad sprinkled the road.

"Cloudy with a chance of Brussels sprouts," his wife said. [Ed. note: yes, the vegetable is capitalized and plural in reference to the Belgian city.]

Various forms of lofted precipitation -- veggie-producers or otherwise -- snagged my imagination, including a beer or two. The unending rain that followed me wherever I lived and traveled this month probably influenced this situation. But clouds have always fascinated me, particularly knowing that humans have only viewed the tippy-tops of them in person for a little more than a century. I always look forward to the ascent through and above the clouds when I fly.

These buoyant beasts form with tiny starters like bacteria and dust (10-min mark). Those common materials then combine into mind-bending shapes.

And like most rules in life, exceptions exist for the typical process of forming blue-sky blockers. Did you know that wildfires can create their own clouds? Same goes for the ancient union of ocean and lava. Scientists have even found a connection to seabird poop.

Clouds predate humans by a few billion years, but that hasn't stopped us from attempting to control this primordial force. Namely, we once tried to weaponize clouds. In more benign interactions, we fear them and celebrate them. We debate them and rank them.

However, I love clouds because they remind me of questions. Some questions are wispy, half-formed dalliances that disappear with a Google search or mild indifference. Sometimes many connected inquiries darken life's horizon as you search for resolutions, or at least the most important question inside yourself, a hypothesis that could keep you on the path toward answers and tomorrow's clearer view.

This month's poem, "Sleeping in the Forest," isn't about clouds, but the final lines feel like a bright summer day, zipping on a bike below infinite cobalt and scudding white.
 

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