Stepping to the window in the morning, I know most people are cheered if they see the sun's radiance filling the sky. Not me. And I don't know why.

Maybe it's a gene scientists will eventually discover. Until then, it's just a membership in an odd club of people who like stormy skies.  Cloudaphiles.   Neurotics who are inexplicably drawn to complex formations, threatening skies, and contrasting yellows and blues and greys.

It's not that I don't like the sun.   But after a while, it burns me out, like a bright blue fabric sitting in some Arizona store window. I become faded; pale blue and brittle.

There's no background quite like a distant and low rumble that moves across the horizon and stretches back and forth across the low parts of the audible sound spectrum.

And I think the gene may have been passed on.  As we stood in the garage last week, Thomas and I watched a rare spring rain pound down upon the driveway and live oaks.   He suddenly peeled off his shoes and spun out into the maelstrom.   He splashed into the puddles along the curbs and swung in the backyard hammock.

When he came in, he said, "Dad, isn't this AWESOME?" What could I say? Yep.

So, when I wake up, I look at the window and think, "This might just be a good day. There might be clouds."

#personal preference

There might be clouds