so now i’m up on the rooftop, watching a storm pull the blue from the mountains and the grey from the clouds, and if you were here you could turn your head from the left and watch the front range vanish, swooning melodramatically to the fainting couch of the eastern Colorado plains.

the storm clouds carve shocks of deep grey out of the sky and wrest sheaves of mute indigo from the faces of the hills and loom them into closer and closer shades, and if your gaze trends far enough to the north and west it is no longer possible to tell where the tumult and tumble of the heavens end, and where the sure solemn earth begins.
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