On the bus, the passenger in the backwards baseball cap who may or may not be a little drunk, staggers to the front, taking the seat closest to the driver.
"D'you see those clouds?" he asks, his fingers waving vaguely west to the disc-shaped puffs.
"Those are called lenticular clouds," the driver explains. "We often get 'em over the mountains."
"Lunaticular?" the passenger asks.
"LENticular," the driver enunciates.
The passenger strokes his chin and continues sifting the syllables.
On a brown field strewn with fresh plugs of dirt from the aerator still humming laps nearby, players chase Frisbees until someone points and shouts.
"Hey, look at those clouds!" he says.
All of us crane our necks toward the sinewy wisps twisting against an impossibly blue backdrop so high overhead.
"I'm starting to feel dizzy," someone else says.
We all are.