On the patio, I found myself listening to your weather report, my pointed curiosity, accompanied by a warming cup of coffee that required the efforts of alternating hands, and a folded newspaper that nervously clung to the insides of my knees. I had used my teeth to open the sliding glass door and waddled outward, stopping beneath a rickety overhang. It was made of corrugated metal, and lately had been showing signs of mold and rot. Perhaps now there was justification for the structure to remain intact, for even decay is worthy of a host to pursue. It was 74 degrees in Florida, but it felt much warmer in the shade. It was breezy, not windy. I could tell the difference as the individual palm fronds vibrated, yet the collective of the canopy held firmly in its place. The sky was as blue as you had claimed, still the clouds routinely appeared, each time, just before my cleansing thoughts could redirect my view. As I swirled the coffee around the sides of my mouth, and contemplated the pros and cons of differing time zones, all I could taste was the creaminess of the milk. The back page of the local section was satirizing downtown development and alluding to falling water levels of a popular, neighboring sea. Eventually, my tongue grew heavy and my lips became numb. I lost my balance and tilted downward, only composing myself when my head dropped below my hips. My feet were now staggered, the right foot in front, the left slightly beyond the realm of center. I was perplexed, but thankful that their courage had halted my impending fall. Things were much different than before, as I hesitantly resumed a vertical base. The trees were dark and heavily charred, and the sky was colored brown, now stained by fragments of wandering soot. My muscles were a giant spasm, while my hands fluttered as if transfixed by the harmonies of a controlling, seasonal tune. I was gratefully awkward, with skin that was suddenly bright green. The hair that once threatened the corners of my eyes, was leafy and well kept. There was an abrasive twinge inside my throat, which was followed by the emergence of an outward, gaping hole. A single piece of bark unfurled itself, curving upward at such a quickening pace, that I almost missed the fact that I was birthing an intricate, wooden spoon. The edges of the bowl scampered along the overhang, clearing debris and scraping away grit, until the roof that I had once claimed was nothing more than fresh aromas and clean, blue air. There were still clouds, but they were no longer in control. As the temperatures found the spoon, the grains warmed and the embers began to glow. The golden rays wrapped the headlines at the bottom of the front page: In L.A., it was supposed to snow.