The forecast when I landed Friday was for “scattered clouds.” A pleasant forecast, one I seldom think about — until I’m in the air.

Scattered clouds from above are steppingstones across a stream of blue.

They are tufts of cotton, shredded and fine.

They are companions, markers to the landscape below. They shadow and define it.

They are harmless, these scattered clouds, because they are not above me but below. They don’t block the sun.