Most people call these clouds and stop.
A few go further and describe them as ” beautiful clouds,” or, if a scientist, ” atmospheric conflagrations. ”
My aunt called them ” buttermilk ” clouds when she was hunched in a bird blind shooting photographs of eagles nesting in the top branches of cottonwood trees on her ranch.
Tonight, these graceful puffs of smoke move languidly through the the sky, just before a sunset that turns the heavens reddish yellow.
These cloud fingers are delicate as a concert pianists hands and look like Octopus tentacles near a coral reef.
No matter how you describe this natural phenomenon, the safest posture is to bow your head and appreciate your good fortune for a world you didn’t make but get to live in.
What is harder than naming clouds is trying to figure out where they come from, and where they are going.