We belong to the weather. Our circles drawn tightly around those who bear our same bodily senses. 'Yes, it's still warm enough to wear shorts. The freeze was only overnight.' 'No, the humidity doesn't bother us. It's so good for our skin.' 'Do you feel that breeze? It's coming from the northwest. A storm will be here within the hour.' 'Yes, yes, I feel it coming. My knees always ache when there's a storm coming. Yours too, I know.' We belong to the wind. The sun's rays divide us. We are the burners and they are the tanners. We are the work; they are the leisure. The snow comes, and alliances form among the well-bundled and the flip-flopped. And then, the impossibility of a purple hazy sunset over a tsunami wave. The warning rumble of a storm we won't outrun. We belong to the weather. Our grip on each other slips away, our well-forged alliances of wind and sun undone, we return to the sea, we dissolve into the air.