utah sky

If I crane my neck ever so slightly when I peek over the edge of my cubicle and out the windows in front of me, all I can see is the tips of snow-capped mountains standing boldly against the impossibly blue Utah sky. You can tell me I'm wrong when I say that Utah sky is like no other sky I've seen before, but I won't believe you. I've looked heavenward from destinations across the United States and a few overseas, but no other stretch of sky compares to the swatch of brilliant blue above my head in Utah.

And sometimes I wonder if the mountains are beautiful because of the Utah sky or if the Utah sky is beautiful because of the mountains, but in the end, I suppose it doesn't matter—beauty is beauty regardless of where it comes from or why it's there.

On idyllic days like today, all I want to do is walk barefoot in the grass (in this hypothetical situation of mine, Utah grass is warm and lush and soft, not dry and brown and prickly) for a while before laying down and just staring at the sky, asking all my questions, telling all my fears, and confiding all my secrets. Because the Utah sky is as friendly and inviting and trustworthy as any inanimate object can be. 

And its rich, vast, unending blueness reminds me that I'm part of something bigger than just little ol' me—something much, much bigger