The sky has been grey all day
and spits rain at me.
But I spit right back.

The day turned cold
sometime around 4
and the wind picked up
soon after.

Ominous clouds,
black, charcoal, and grey,
gather and hang overhead
and turn the sky's light blue-black.

In the dim, underlit light
of the fading day,
the grass glows deep green
and the fern peonies,
swaying in the wind,
shine blood red.

Out on the hills,
the grass waves and undulates
like the restless seas,
and the rushing of the wind
brings the crashing of the shore
to the rustling grasses of the prairie.

If warmer, this would be tornado weather.

Instead, the wind has a hard edge,
a cold bite that stings bare skin
with raw and wet force.

The sky refuses to cry,
but simply spits and mists
until you wish for a good soak,
just to get it over with.

For most, this would be "bad" weather,
but for me, it is lovely and wild,
untamed and rebellious,
dark and beautiful.

These are the best days to take walks,
when the air is rain-fresh,
but cold.

When the sun is hidden,
your eyes are opened,
and all the subtle beauty of Nature
is revealed.

The sky still spits,
but I spit back, unafraid,
unfazed,
and unwilling to give up
such a beautiful day.