Two white clouds, like wind fritters or monstrous cauliflowers, grow behind the hills surrounding the city. The largest casts a gray shadow over a car warehouse, near the train track, while a rabid sun, like a hysterical orange, dries the trees on the industrial estate. A man looks up at the sky, sees how the rays of light illuminate the edges of the clouds, which acquire a soft and oily consistency, like a fried egg. The larger cloud contracts a little to give way to a beam of light that hits the man's face. “But what the hell are you doing? -the other cloud tells him- that bristles, spiraling next to him. “What did that guy do to you?”
The biggest cloud is bothered by the fact that they spend their time looking at it and hearing people's mockery: “it will be like every day: four drops that will not get wet under the cars.” With an exceptional effort of concentration she manages to turn one of the cauliflower twigs from white to a more or less pearly gray. On the contrary, the arm that she has contracted to let the dazzling beam pass melts into the air. She is starting to get tired of all the stories. She and her partner move parallel to the highway, shading the onlookers. “Don't you see that those poor people are doing what they can?” “Oh, yes,” says the largest cloud, which, with a cottony gesture, indicates the second, third and fourth belts, full of cars and trucks, and the slaloms of motorcycles. The smaller cloud, which she has studied, explains to her that pollution is positive for clouds like them. “Don't you see it? Suspended particles are our friends. The more particles, the more water droplets and ice crystals are formed. Then we become bright, reflective, and cast that rich shadow. If Humanity manages to limit pollution, cloudy and reflective skies will decrease.” The smaller cloud inhales a whiff of sulfur dioxide and, instantly, it develops a few curly volutes that run into the arms of the other cloud like the tires on bumper cars. “We need dirty air,” she says, justifying the car drivers, who honk desperately. “A good cushion of clouds stops the sun's rays and produces coolness. If there is no dirt, there are no clouds, since there is no sunshade effect, the rays hit the earth furiously and temperatures skyrocket.”
The biggest cloud has begun to spread over the hill. From the top he sees a Boeing heading to the airport, followed at regular intervals by a second, a third and a fourth Boeings obediently queuing on the crowded air routes. “In other words, without pollution there are no clouds, the air heats up, the temperature skyrockets and these poor people are heading towards disaster. But with pollution, CO2 accumulates in the atmosphere and they cook anyway.” Over the city, the two clouds begin to release a few timid wisps, they lose wisps and transform into a pair of anemic cirrus clouds. “They have it screwed down there.” "Yes boy".
