And here's the narrative play-by-play...
Clouds are so deceptive and mysterious. From the ground, it's just a solid mass of low grey sky-stuff. Just one flat woolly blanket of gloomy weather.
We take off in the jet. The view of the rapidly receding landscape -- airplanes and buses and roadways and air traffic control tower -- is suddenly obliterated by thick cotton fluff outside the window.
Then suddenly we're up and above that soft loose grey layer. I can see yet another ceiling of clouds overhead. Once through that, the air seems lighter, but there's still no sun to be seen. Three more repetitions of the same, in short order, with cloud layers of varying textures and densities. Lots of swirling, whirling white.
Now there's another flat ceiling of clouds much higher above, but after piercing through that, it becomes clear that it wasn't flat at all. Instead it's huge piles and hillocks and heaps of cloud, which we're flying up and through and between. I can now see for miles and miles and miles, and other far-away planes look like mere specks amongst the beautiful masses of white.
But there's still another layer of cloud far above. This could be the last level? Through that one, up and up, and above that? It's simply wispy mare's tails.
I love to fly.