Weather & Elysia
Weather
Have you ever noticed how the clouds on a quiet morning look like pages turned by wind, each shape a fleeting stanza in the sky?
Elysia
They drift, like forgotten poems, waiting to be read in the hush of dawn. Each puff a line you can almost hear before it disappears.
Weather
That’s exactly how I read a weather map in my mind—each cloud a quiet note, a data point waiting to be plotted into the day’s story.
Elysia
So the map turns into a garden of whispers, each swirl a seed of tomorrow’s song.
Weather
A garden that keeps growing, one quiet swirl at a time.
Elysia
The garden hums softly, each swirl folding like a petal that never quite opens.