The triptych window in my living room gives me a view of the sky, glancingly pinned to the earth at the bottom of the frame by an apartment block rooftop and the sparse canopy of a nearby gum tree. I forget, sometimes (because when I'm home it's mostly at night and the blind is invariably down) just how perfect it is to lie back and watch the clouds slip on by.
Right now, I'm watching the thick, grey rain clouds draw across the sky, marching the last of the day's light away. There's one that's hanging lower than the rest, a great reaching quadruped of a cloud, like a hungry dragon scouring the land below for sustenance as it passes by. Already it's crossed from the first window frame to the last — they're moving deceptively fast, these clouds.
I have action scenes to write in the faerie novel, and watching this sky is leaving me in a languorous mood entirely unsuited to writing them.
Dammit, she said half-heartedly.