The storms roll in diagonally down the prevailing, sliding greasy on the continent and we are microscopic from the satelites. Even with the skies clear the little sparkles don't see so well, little lords they do not know their people: "Sir. Yes sir. But sire, the drops are still on the eaves." We must anyway, keep perspective, our windshields keeping time like metronomes. Hey you! Hup! Don't care if it's Chopin or Bach that you're playing. And then a leaf fell with an ant gently upside down. Then an ant fell from his mission quite softly to the azaleas:
it was an accident he said, it was the wind, the weather.