"Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?"

The clouds are grey and gold and silver-lined against a fairly blue sky. And the late day sun sits behind it all. It's like the way the sky looks in inspirational pictures where the sky is supposed to be god or something. Isn't that strange? That those pictures want us to believe god is the sky. Or that he's a cloud formation. Or that his voice is sunlight creeping through the clouds above the ocean or a mountain range? And isn't it strange that I feel compelled to go back and capitalize a whole bunch of words now? Like should I have capitalized "god" or "voice" or "he" or "mountain?" I guess I have this notion that capitalization probably isn't enough to pacify god anyway. If god gets upset about how much respect gets paid him, chances are that being mindful of capitalizing pronouns isn't going to cut the mustard.

And what is this business of cutting mustard, while we're on the topic? Do I really need to go back and study the blueprints of any mechanism which isn't sufficient to cut through mustard? Unless we're talking about stone ground mustard here. Because I guess I can see that. That's a rough substance.

I don't know what the sky tells me today. And I'm no sailor, so I suppose it isn't important. I always carry an umbrella. And my shoes keep me well out of puddles for the most part. It's probably silly of me to think that the sky is any sort of personal messenger anyhow. There's very little in nature that is designed to tell me anything. That much is clear. Trees are fun for climbing, but it never feels good to have sand in your pants, and water is seldom as clean as you'd like it to be.

What the devil am I talking about? Yes, I can see how you might ask that.