"Aerodynamically, the bumblebee shouldn't be able to fly, but the bumblebee doesn't know it, so it goes on flying anyway." Mary Kay Ash
I was only half awake at four-fifteen a.m. as I drove, and there was some morning mist obscuring my already hazy I-should-not-be-up-this-early state of mind. Then I saw them. Clouds littering the road. Big bits of white fluff, too foamy to be solid. A scan of the surrounding area revealed more clusters on the grass and people's front lawns.
I slowed the vehicle and rolled down my windows as if I might say to them, "How did you get down here?" or "Don't you know that if you're that weighed down with water, you should just give it up as rain? You're not supposed to sink this low. Hurry and get back up in the sky."
When I was traveling at 1 mile per hour and had rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I spotted the frothing fountain that belonged to an apartment building off on my left-hand side. Enormous billows of snow-white soap foam was cresting up over the brick enclosure, and I understood. Someone had poured laundry detergent or some other cleanser into the fountain and the lighter-than-air suds had been carried across the street by wind. Whether it was a prank or part of a routine winter fountain-cleaning, I'm not sure. I can only say, that it provided a surreal start to the morning, and, for that, the artist in me is grateful.