The roof farm obscured by direct sunlight.
When last did you lie on your back beneath clouds?
I have been reading Turgenev again. His Sportsman's Sketches, and he writes about clouds, a lot. Russian clouds.
I could do this more often, but for some reason I don't.
If you can, do. Today, even.
I think it is very good for you. Something happens:
You breathe out. And in doing so, you realize that you have not, for some time, breathed out.
You are smoothed. Inside and out. You tell yourself, or perhaps you feel: It's going to be OK. Even if it isn't.