The wind is beautiful today. He is whispering sweet nothings into the worlds' ears. The wind is warm. The leaves are still crisp, if any are left. We are caught in a small winter, but it is winter. The air should be cold, but it is not. The wind is savoured by it's crisp notes that envelope the warm, warm air.

If I could be anything but me today, or at least this morning, I would want to be the wind because he is travelling at a fine temperature, at a fine speed, at a fine time.