The substance of the winds is too thin for human eyes, their written language is too difficult for human minds, and their spoken language mostly too faint for the ears. – John Muir, A Thousand-Mile Walk To the Gulf

[T]he cold warms me—after a different fashion from that of the kitchen stove. – John Burroughs, “The Snow-Walkers,” 1866

He brewed his tea in a blue china pot, poured it into a chipped white cup with forget-me-nots on the handle, and dropped in a dollop of honey and cream. He sat by the window, cup in hand, watching the first snow fall. “I am,” he sighed deeply, “contented as a clam. I am a most happy man.” – Ethel Pochocki, Wildflower Tea, 1993

My favorite weather is bird-chirping weather. – Terri Guillemets, “April morning on the patio,” 1988