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.
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