Weather report

I don't know the weather report for today.

Two hundred years of Industrial Revolution could have driven the temperatures up to where it's a 125 degrees today. 

Asteroids may be coming.

Tornadoes may churn down on small towns, stirring houses and cows into the air like a juggler with toys.

There could be a breeze and the scent of lilacs.

Snow could fall amid the sweet bite of smoke.

And a great flood could be coming.

Stars, perhaps, are being born and collapsing into themselves while locusts ravage the harvest and cherry blossom petals float to the ground.

Eggs may be hatching. Wolves watching moose from the shadows. Spider webs may have been drawn in the night but all the butterflies that are too smart for them ride the wind following a secret call.

It might be drizzling, dim under the heavy clouds. There might be great gouts of steam rising from the city, trains hauling endless loads and sounding their horns, sirens and seagulls calling, and a metal taste in the air.

It could be cold or frigid, warm or burning, wet or dry, bitter or sweet.

But I don't care.

I

don't

care.

Because once, on this day, all the stars in the Universe lined up in an act of alchemical and spiritual perfection, and a blossom let out, a bloom of flowers, seeds, stars, and gold, unfurled exquisitely in time.

Today that falls from the heavens.

It's all the weather I need.