A motion of air. My hand reaches up to know weather by wind. Rain or sun? Both possible. I open my palm to the full. As I stand there, a whisper quick to ripple as a fold of silk. into light glides across the overcast put to the usual morning's test with the usual change of subject I have come to expect. A motion within. A surge of feeling in place of weather telling. I raise my other hand to phrase a joyous impulse in only possible praise.