The sky, typically, is a blinding shade of blue beaten down by the Sun that really has a problem with the windward side of the rain shadow cast by the San Gabriel mountain ranges. They had been split from their other half, the San Bernardino mountains. Sheered in the middle by the power of the fault lines. Rarely clouds form in the sky. Or much of it. Sometimes we can see the top hats of storms, rolling off the Pacific to dump water and anger more inside the country. As those clouds sail on they are still lazy unwilling to waste precious cargo when they just left the gas station. When the clouds do grace, they look unreal. As if painted skies were being sketched out on a large board. The artist’s strokes of changes are fluid, yet each one brings their own style. Whispy or fluffy (damn!) the reason they contrast so well is the backdrop of most of the horizons are mountain ranges of fresh 5 million years of elevation. The valley below is a baseball diamond, being smashed together like playdough.