Swallows are flying low:
that means rain.
Last fall I was clinging to the weather lore
and kept checking the forecast frantically:
it was the only way available
to see at least a small fragment of the future.
Seagulls are floating on water:
that means fair weather.
This spring I relearned the joy of being
the first one to notice that the rain has stopped,
of taking my hood off proudly, followed
by the loud applause of closing umbrellas all around.
The evening sky is bright red:
I forget what that means.
I'm not worried about tomorrow’s warnings—
I'm not trying to read the sky’s mind,
or anyone’s, in fact. I let the sun
set slowly and leave me alone for the night.