You don't need a Shaman to tell which way the Winds blow

Accurate facts on the ground merely multiply the hype within the labeled clouds. The curse reversed. Originally, weather was interpreted like chicken innards. Predictably, awe, mystery, panic accumulates. It lies in the loss of the curvaceous. The sexless Dad, out of retirement, points up the cold air font. The grid of flights, color-coded everything, scrolling banners below: watches, advisories, finally emergencies. Capital's regions buried momentarily. Miss work. Miss Universe. Yellow trucks, salt's lot. We miss a history to deny, shovel. Profane storms pale before miracles & plagues. 

Like this morning

She was one of those cousins I'd never known about. Darker skin gloved in a white turtleneck. Texas, December. Soft nest of black hair - part tumbleweed, lint and 100% Annette Funicello. Their truck descended the horse field, dropped us at the filing station. "We'll walk back," I said. The party was in back. A rattlesnake stuck out of a manhole, terrestrial eel, a solitary stamen waving about the throat of a cement underground flower disappearing into the earth. Fifty of her closest friends were situated around big bowls of chips. I was happy. Everything new makes me happy.