Sea foam bouncing across the 101 highway.  Salt spray stinging cheeks.  Gulls and pelicans frozen in the air, riding the currents of air sweeping in from the sea.  Churning whitewash, boiling and heaving on the inside, while mountains of water build, build, build then crest with white foam, before crumbling and folding upon itself in explosive beauty.  Hidden flashes of lightning in clouds, rolling thunder.  Sheets of rain blurring view, even with the wipers at full blast.  Rivers of muddy water, bobbing boats of trash, swirling along the freeway. 

And all the different sounds and sensations of rain.  Pattering with friendly tones, not menacing.  Soft wet kisses on the cheeks, a light dampening of hair.  Or loud smacks, tings, and roars.  Piercing cotton and coats and skin, wet to the bone in minutes.  Or sideways rain, always accompanied by dear friend wind, cutting into one side, cold and sharp. 

Do we, as humans, have that aversion to always talking about the weather because it is something entirely out of our control?  Because it is unpredictable, beautiful, terrible, and humbling?


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