I Like To Predict The Weather

I Like To Predict The Weather

I revel in the rhythms of the sky,
divining whispers hidden in the wind,
interpreting the stories told by clouds
as they unfurl across the canvas blue.

A quiet observer, I watch the dance
of shadows and light, the subtle shifts
that herald the coming of rain or shine.
Each morning's hue, a clue unveiled;
each sunset, a mystery sealed in amber.

The atmosphere is my oracle,
the breeze my ancient scripture—
reading each sign, each subtle hint
as leaves rustle and branches sway.

To predict the weather is to converse
with the elements, to engage in a silent dialogue
with the forces that sculpt our days.
This communion with nature's cryptic tongue
is not just science but an art—
where intuition meets the empirical,
melding in a symphony of possibilities.

I celebrate the tempest and the calm alike,
finding joy in the anticipation,
the perpetual unfolding of earth's breath.
In this pursuit, every gust of wind is a poem,
and every drop of rain, a verse—
all part of the grand narrative
of the world's ever-turning page.