A Beautiful Day

A Beautiful Day

The author dwells on the troubles of beautiful weather and its negative impact on art. She searches for an explanation among the people and ponders under a tree. 
         
My History doesn’t reach particularly far, and I have no extensive background as a Scholar. For the purpose of keeping Records, however, I will note that sixteen years ago, I was born, and three days ago Catastrophe struck.
Catastrophe, Mother Nature’s tirade against the People and their Art, the End of All Things Crucial, a veritable creative Apocalypse—the Weather was beautiful. The Sun shone brightly, the Breeze moved lightly through green Trees, and the Birds—Sparrows, Robins, Black-Capped Chickadees—the Birds chirped prettily in the same Trees through which the Breeze moved so pleasantly, lightly. And then I heard a Shout, and our Writer came running.
“Writer—O dear, gentle Writer,” I said in alarm, “What is the matter?”
“The Weather! The Weather is beautiful,” he exclaimed. “The Sun is shining, the Breeze is gently breezing, and the Birds—the Birds!—they chirp so happily in the Trees. How am I to write when the Weather is beautiful?”
And so Catastrophe struck.
I had not previously considered the severity of Consequence surrounding beautiful weather, had not thought to think how destructive shining, golden rays might be to our good writer’s Art. So I began to consider, contemplate, and ponder weather’s possibly detrimental effects. I came to understand that, in fact, the Weather itself was less problematic than the resulting Happiness a sunny day might bring. Our Writer was in unfortunately High Spirits, and his poetic Work ceased to be Poetry.

“The Sun is shining,
The Birds chirping—
I—”

And so Poetry would end as the Writer inevitably fell prey to the distraction of green meadows.
         For three days, I brooded over the new, disturbing idea that something as innocuous as the gentle curl of a well-shaped cloud might bring Disaster to all Arts. Finally, I left my quiet suburban village—the Suspense left me with a restiveness I had to cure, and I left to search for a definitive answer among the People.
“People,” I demanded, “How goes the Weather?”
         “Oh,” cried a local Schoolteacher, “The Weather is beautiful.”
         “Beautiful!” conceded the disconsolate Violinist. “So beautiful I’ve misplaced my Violin—but who wants to hear the morose strains of Stravinsky’s Symphony in E-flat Major?  Nobody wants to think about depression, angst, or squalor!”
         Watching the Frolicking of townspeople through the Fields, by the Rivers, in the Sun, I considered my newfound wisdom. Without dissatisfaction, Artistic Production contained no meaning, no Purpose for the people. Perfect weather could hardly merit a composition, and perfect weather was not motivation for an Artiste. The Muses disappeared with the Sleet, Hail, and Ice of Winter—with those treacherous Winter Months when Writers would produce Page after Page of Script when they could barely feel their frost-bitten fingers in the cold.
         As I sat under my Tree, still pondering, I heard a faint rumble in the Sky. Surely a mistake—no, it was impossible—but evidently nature had no reverence for the Impossible. Thunder sounded in the Sky, and frolicking ceased as the Air became tense, and the previously pleasant breeze suddenly grew nippy. A single drop of moisture fell first, and then—
         A Thunderstorm.