Nobody Does Anything About the Weather

This was a stunning September morning. The Beast led the way.

Another conference call. This one was led off by somebody providing a weather report from the midwest. Turns out it was nice weather out there, and somehow this was weird but–not to worry strangers on the call–the weather will be bad. The report was apropos of nothing. An odd non sequitur. And not very interesting, bless her heart. I hate conference calls.

But before I get all superior, I have to ask, how many times have I written about the weather this year. Six times? Maybe ten? How many ways can I describe the change in weather? The heat? The cool? The sun filtering through the trees, making shadows on the sidewalk, sending up an artist’s palette of colors, warming the world?

How many times have I posted about my morning stroll? It’s always about the air–crisp, heavy, frigid, humid. It’s about the light, too–dark, bright, layered, orange or purple. There’s also storms–rain, snow or just wind–providing fodder for my daily struggle.

Is it enough that I tap into weather as a vehicle to practice descriptive writing? Is it better that I sometimes use the weather as a metaphor? Is it of value that I use the weather to transmit a small tale?

Have I committed the worst sin of writing? Am I boring you, my Loyal Reader?

I took on the challenge to write every day. I know that the quality is uneven. I recognize there’s more than a score, perhaps even four score, of less than stellar results. But dull?

Maybe I’ll just tune my point of view. Yes. I’m not delivering a weather report. I am describing the environment–how it looks and how it smells and how it feels and how it sounds. I am practicing using words to share details so you can imagine what I am thinking, so you have some context, and to bring us closer together.

This morning the shadows were longer and the air was cooler. I stepped onto the porch but kept my hand on the door handle to push it back open. I needed a little something.

I went to the hall closet and found my black hope and change hoodie. It’s eight years old now. It’s stretched out at the cuffs. The zipper catches on loose threads at the bottom and there are little holes in the left pocket, the one that holds the treats. I blame the Beast.

I pulled on the worn fleece, but didn’t zip it.

The leaves on the trees were still mostly green, but some had given up. The sidewalk was spotted with dry leaves. They skittered along the concrete until they crunched under paw or sneaker. Definitely a sign.

We’re on the cusp of the next season. But we’re not there, yet. Summer still has some breath left. She’s elbowing back and forth with Fall. Until Fall wins the match. I never did pack my sweaters away. Now it’s definitely too late.

Wake up, Loyal Reader, and thank you for your time. I do appreciate you.

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