Noon and a lull in the rains. A sky the colour of washed out light blue denim. High up are scattered thin lines of cirrus clouds, like a child's finger paint smudges; below them are big, white, puffy cumulus clouds, racing across, going eastwards driven by grey, billowing cumulo-nimbus, pushing along, gusting, changing shape constantly. Will it, won't it, will it, won't it, will it won't it rain?
Should I, shouldn't I, should I, shouldn't I take the clothes in?