In winter, when the dismal rain comes down in slanting lines, and wind, that grand old harper, smote his thunder-harp of pines.

Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw? Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder goe when it dies?

When he made a decree for the rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder: / Then did he see it, and declare it; he prepared it, yea, and searched it out.

Our religion keeps reminding us that we aren't just will and thoughts. We're also sand and wind and thunder. Rain. The seasons. All those things. You learn to respect everything because you are everything. If you respect yourself, you respect all things.

Well, I've played in rain before. I've played in the wind before. I played when it was cold before. But all put together was really hectic,

Gripped with bitter cold, ice-locked, vision blurred with dense fog. The cold sun is just setting bashing some colder lavender hill. I wonder if the snow loves the trees and field, as it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt. The road is soaked with rain and sparkling under the street-lamps, like a lake reflecting strings of lights. A bitter wind, whipped at my face, its howling forming the high notes of symphony. The evening lacked none of winter’s rough poetry.