Skies on chipboard

From The New York Times comments section, I found an envelope as lovely as that of my college workshop group where we photocopy stories and critique them almost always every Wednesdays. The original article, Desperately Seeking Synonyms, which challenged its readers to paint "a realistic picture of sky using precise and surprising nouns and adjectives", remarked:
"One of the hardest things to describe in a fresh way is the sky — whether at dawn, at dusk or before a storm." 
I handpicked these comments like I would encircle a paragraph during a workshop, putting a star somewhere around it, but as it accumulated it bore weight, like trying to see fifty snapshots of skies in one sitting.

I am posting this like a kid who has just discovered the possibilities of pinning anything on a bulletin board.

--
From L. Egan:
I'll tell you how the sun rose,--
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.
The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
"That must have been the sun."
- Emily Dickinson
From RMC:
The sky reminded her of her ex-husband: grey, brooding and portending violence. The clouds reached toward the horizon like gloved hands hovering over a sleeping, unsuspecting torso. The boats, clustered together like schoolgirls in summer dresses, had no warning of the mayhem to come.
From Kevin Burns:
That morning the clouds had squatted over us like fat schoolboys over an anthill. Now the sun pierced the shadows, the sharp contrast magnifying the burning rays so we had to avert our eyes. Thick white fingers of light stretched earthward, and we instinctively avoided their touch.
From Chris Bradley:
I was five and the sky was my mother's apron: blindingly wide, white and covered in flour.
From Baruch:
The sky was the colour of cold. A coarse cotton sheet that no-one could be bothered dying. You wrap that around your firstborn and he says it makes him colder.
From Don Westrich:
The beginning of William Gibson's SF novel "Neuromancer": "The sky was the color of a TV tuned to an empty channel."
From Bob:
In winter, what’s left of sky? The stars have flown south. Morning reveals a famished tree with a cloud snared in its branches.
From Amy:
Oatmeal. That was what the sky was like. It was the color of oatmeal with big ponderous clouds rolling through, clumps of rain falling in great glops coating the pavement with their sticky splatter.
From Raisa:
It was their anniversary, he invited her out. "Big Expectations" was the name of the dinner. They sat in a booth. His back was to the window, she sat across reading the menu, he started talking. She drifted away. There was the window, there was the blue sky, clear, illuminating, attractive, and enchanting.