Clouds, fascinate me. I ponder their shapes. Kind of like when I see a license plate that is obviously personalized but sometimes carries an esoteric message. Those I ponder as well. License plates, ascribe an intentional message. Whether I actually ever figure them out, or whether I gasp when I do (the most memorable so far, sleeping censor, was PHUQUAWL, a California plate on a convertible), I know there was an intention to the arrangement of the letters. Clouds, on the other hand, are interpretive, not intentional. At least arguably. And I will argue that at least this one time , mired in critical thoughts that tend to arise from time to time, when I looked up and saw the configuration of clouds suspended between the two rows of townhomes, I thought the arrangement was intentional. The clouds were smiling. A winky smile that poked fun at my inner critic who had no justification for challenging me that day, nor most days, really. Now these were California clouds which, in the echelon of clouds, are far below those lenticular clouds that hug the mountains, or the suspended 3-D clouds in the cerulean blue skies of New Mexico, so these clouds were a bit more than to the left of center. The whoo whoo of clouds. Yet on that day those clouds felt intentional, personal even. Paying attention, whether to the letters of a personalized license plate, or to clouds, or stars, or birds, or cars, or people is being present. Being present tunes us to the world and can only help us, whether through conscious intention, interpretation, or somewhere along the whoo whoo scale---that place that lies in the confluence of the conscious and unconscious. This is where creativity and craft collide. Writers need to be present to the whoo whoo scale. Just because we can't understand something, doesn't negate its reality. Whoo Whoo!