I see why she wants to draw them.  The clouds are a tableau of swirl and roll that’s catching an impossible luminous pink.  They’re turning smoke gray from east to west, it’s just the edges now but you know it’s coming, you can see it happening if you watch carefully enough.  She’s sketching madly, outline, shading, colored pencils pressed into service then dropped on one another with a gentle tinkling.  She has these eyes like you’ve never seen, they’re bigger than her head, they pivot with a flow and force that you can almost hear, those synched-up chasms that would express emotion even where there is none (while she brushes her teeth, when she’s dead in the morgue).  They seem to take in more photons than yours or mine or anybody’s, trying to trap more than their fair share of the light that flashes by, so much so that you’d swear you see them glowing, nothing figurative about it.  She looks from sky to sketch pad to sky again, trying so hard to create something fully true to what she sees out there and what she is in there before it’s gone.  It’s desperate, impossible but she tries so hard, the clouds now half dark and half more impossible pink than ever and so deep that you want them to explode or melt and hope that’s what the end will look like.  I see why she wants to draw them, but if you just saw those eyes you might forget for a second that there’s color or clouds or a sky there at all for all that trying, trying, trying, you might forget that there’s nothing you can do but look.