Why does odd weather fill my head with words? I wouldn't complain if they were good words, perhaps words in some kind of pleasing order. I should just jot them down and file them away (far, far away from human sight) until such time when I might rediscover them and deem them good and workable.

Composed during this afternoon's hailstorm:

"It came down hard as bullets knocking both bird and men from the skies, and if I hadn't stepped back, I surely would have been killed when Pete landed exactly where I had stood. He and his machine simultaneously released a heavy grunt when they hit, a harsh departure from the usual soft discharge of air and the snap-sling, snap-sling unbuckling of harness. Pete's head hung low resting against the safety bar, his long, stringy hair dripping with sweat while all around him dying birds dropped and bounced onto the asphalt.

A moment later, moving south across the lot, a storm of red solar bars rained from the skies and in its path, all things were charred to a blackened crisp."

Okay, tell me that's not weird. Better still, tell me what it means!