Today at 11:46 A.M. I espied a diminutive cousin of Mr. Wordsworth's lonely wandering cloud; it hung there all all by itself in solitude above the mountain tops, a single billowy cotton-ball alone aloft in a blue, blue Arizona sky, a cloud that first was--and then was not. At 11:47 A.M. the sky was a deep, deep blue...and cloudless. That little white cloud had melted away right before my watching eyes.
All things are transitory, it seems.
Something like that.