Young Writers Society

And get creative, e.g.:

• Today's weather is sporadic sunbeams.
• Lots of vanilla ice cream on blue frosting.
• Precipitation estimated to be a single dot on a student's backpack.

Temperatures at the level where it's safe to store your oranges outside of the fridge.

Sun is anticipated to be purely emotional, not visual.

The weatherman said the summer-heat was record-breaking this year, like we should award it an Olympic medal or something. But the locust, perched on her windowsill, tells me heat isn't relative - but a constant - because even in the night, the sun is always shining on the other half of the planet, it is a pot always almost over-boiling, it is a flower always blooming, it is a fire always on the verge of consuming everything, it just always is, and if it bothers you, just take a moment to float in the river, and you'll soon forget your worry once you're halfway submerged underwater. I would tell the locust that humans don't work that way, that we always need something to compare and something to complain about, that we probably wouldn't be able to survive the winter if we loved the sun that much. But the locust does not have time for me. She is quite busy, as she always is, trying once more to chase the sun. And she doesn't really care how terribly, constantly, wonderfully hot it is outside today.

Yeah, the incomprehensibly large sky demon has decided not to give us the sun today… yeah, sorry…

Cold and bright and definitely not an April day.

"THE ROAD IS WET WHEN RAINING," the sign declares matter-of-factly for all those who have not yet discovered this particular direct correlation between rain and water. And I would scoff at their unknowing state of oblivion except I know exactly how sometimes a storm causes you to lose track of all the simple realities we so often take for granted. Bright when the sun is shining. Cool when the wind is blowing. Green when the grass is growing. Here when our feet are standing. Alive when these lungs are moving. Yes, the road is wet when raining and I promise you the sun will rise tomorrow; and the day after; and the day after that. Sometimes it is rather necessary, to state the obvious - if only until the clouds move, and you see the sun again.

The moon shimmered in the sky like the scales of a thousand dragons.

I'm adding to this because I live in Ohio and we had a record-breaking heat wave today, 9/6...

The sun shone as hot as the devil's crotch.

I'm ready for 70-degree weather!!

Raindrops dappled on my skin, like I was a beautiful cake being decorated by forest faries

Autumn is pushing into my home before I have a chance to tell her she's early, and the sun hasn't arrived yet and won't for several hours. She does not care. She has laid out her collection of dried flowers, and acorns, and chirping crickets in an uneven row across my doormat and asks where I would like her to leave her storm-songs? I tell her I am not interested in buying anything today, not a girl-scout cookie, not a popcorn-ball, not a hurricane, and no I'm not nostalgic enough to start a fire or to turn on the heat in my apartment before October. She doesn't take no for an answer though. And against my better judgement, we are soon conversing like the old-friends we are, overly comfortable with each-other's bad habits because we share them too and we're both willing to overlook the mess. Legs folded in on couch cushions, and mugs of tea at our palms, we will gossip into the moonlight-hours about the way winter is always flirting with the trees, telling stories about how the summer's been long and scarce, how we're scared of how fast time seems to move and take and take and how we're both ready for a season of hoarding everything we can hold.

The mobile salon for trees is here: rain for the suds and leaf-wash, wind for the combing.

I'm not sure whether to wear a coat or not -
because October has not decided quite
what she shall be today; and so
I carry my coat, and a pair of gloves,
right along with seven rounded acorns
and a wonderfully golden leaf
I thought I might save for tomorrow
when I can decide what to do.

1. Windy enough to lift roofs, but not spirits. Intermittent cycling of flower petals which attracts filmmakers, running and clutching onto their hats until they too are blown away.

2. Windy enough to set off alarms, and also the distant alarming shouts of people going against the warnings, gathering in big groups outside, all to witness something unusual -and be blown away by it.