everyone mentions the weather because it is something noticed and valued. whether or not you care that the rain sweeps birdshit off your car, that sunlight smiles on the morning dew, warms your hair to the touch, hugs the sky tight enough to turn her blue, you live within the world, create your own heat just as your mother's heat once created you. weather is the scene that holds god's art, a poem painted bright against the stars and stronger stuff than any man would dare eschew. creation in her purest form, distilled each day and poured into your parking space, comes to tell you there is more than just your normal run from place to place, available from any direction you might care to view. poor artist, no matter how great or near-immortal works your poor imagination might capture from the ether of a moment long enough to create, you will never equal the weather. nor, one might suppose, would any sane daughter or son (not to say that any artist worth a fraction of a cent would be sane) want such attention. who could imagine what words might spit from the lips of strangers if upon every storm to rock the storm windows, every stroke of sunlight's fingers on the waves, every soft moon wrapped in a shawl of clouds, every angry chill carried on the broad shoulders of the wind, everyone should mention - you?