Eight months of occasional fog,
Usually gone by 9 AM.
Otherwise it’s blue skies,
Not blue with big white puffy’s,
Merely a never-ending sky
That has not been troubled by
Disturbances from the South,
From whence perhaps might come storms,
As mighty hurricanes march to the Pacific,
And lose their energy long before
They might otherwise invade our very boring weather.
A ruling most declare whether forest fires
That come from the east, and can
Super-impose a black, dirty, ash-filled,
Low level of sky, that competes
With our soulless bluer than blue dome
Thereby creating an incredible contrast
Of such discord as to suggest the world’s end,
Is a result of weather or God’s direct judgment
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