Today the clouds hang heavy and turn all the colors gray, and the air feels too thick to breathe, and it seems like maybe all the little beautiful things are swallowed up.
And I'm staring out the bus window, (late because overcast heaviness made it hard to just stand this morning) and I see it -- a little bunch of pale yellow flowers growing in the concrete cracks of the median between crumbling asphalt lanes.
When it was fresh poured, the concrete lay thick and gray over the dirt and maybe it seemed as if there were no chance for life anymore at all.
But it's the clouds that are always shifting and splitting and passing, always passing, and it is the sun that is always steady, always still, always burning, always easing the clouds away from behind.
And today the concrete is crumbling, and today beauty grows from the unseen underneath.