The local clouds of the mountains.

November 12.

It clears up. A very bright rainbow. Three reds and greens, in the southeast, heightening the green of the pines. 

From Fair Haven Hill, I see a very distant, long, low dark-blue cloud in the northwest horizon beyond the mountains, and against this I see, apparently, a narrow white cloud resting on every mountain and conforming exactly to its outline — as if the white frilled edge of the main cloud were turned up over them. In fact, the massive dark-blue cloud beyond revealed these distinct white caps resting on the mountains this side, for twenty miles along the horizon. 

The sun having set, my long dark cloud has assumed the form of an alligator, and where the sun has just disappeared it is split into two tremendous jaws, between which glows the eternal city, its crenate lips all coppery golden, its serrate fiery teeth. Its body lies a slumbering mass along the horizon.

H. D, Thoreau, Journal, November 12, 1852

A narrow white cloud resting on every mountain and conforming exactly to its outline ... See August 9, 1860 ("a beautiful and serene object, a sort of fortunate isle in the sunset sky, the local cloud of the mountain.”)

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