Late summer skies

We're approaching the confluence of seasons, much to my chagrin. I'd rather that it stayed summer for a while, although all that dank heat makes me weary these dog days, puts October's colorful winter prelude in mind in a way that doesn't seem all bad. 

But the skies tell the story. This time of year they're big and rambunctious and often strewn with the wreckage of overnight storms or the stirrings of the morning's to come. When that messiness breaks up in a dawn, I can hardly sit still here, just a window away. Here's a few shots I've taken lately when I stepped just outside the door.

And there's this too:

Out here in the country, it's not hard to remember that John Calvin used to say our perception of God's almighty-ness is created most powerfully in the awe we feel in the face of a world so beautiful and powerful and therefore so much unlike ourselves. Our depravity--our not being God--is never quite so profoundly revealed than we stand in the face of eternity of  God almighty--maybe in skies like this--

or, more beneficently, like this--

Almost daily this late summer season, I'm reminded that the Yankton, who preceded us out here on the edge of the Great Plains, quite religiously rose from their tipis, facing east, to observe the dawn. I can't help wondering who were the better Calvinists.