It has been pointed out to me that I don't know much about the weather. I talk about the weather a lot, and I am an astute observer of the weather, but it's true that I understand little about the meteorological phenomena behind the weather. I just look at the clouds and listen to the birds. Are the clouds moving? Are the birds in a frenzy? Have the birds suddenly all shut up? I met a fellow in England years ago, and he claimed that he could predict the weather by observing the behavior of horses. Of course there were no horses on the campus of Kent, in Canterbury, England, and everyone laughed at him because he was odd. I, however, did not laugh at him because the people who laughed at him disgusted me, especially the rich and pompous, Greek exchange students who went about in Adidas track suits and looked down their noses at everyone as they slicked back their hair with combs made from poached ivory.
But it's true: I don't know much about the weather. I am a poet. Weather is never actual weather. There are feelings in every cloud. Sometimes those clouds burst. When there are no clouds in the sky, I feel nothing at all. I only scorch.