Because I Waxed Poetic on the Bus
The sky looks like nothing so much as demons escaping from a Gate. All types are accounted for, the writhing serpents of smoke and the wispy, granulated clouds, further down. Pushed back until there was no one left in wait that was strong enough to. They surge at a larger cloud, barely any lighter but enough. Formless and opaque, and I can not see what happens above.