The wind walked on the tarmac. It swept up the dust in swirls ten feet high. As it strode past, the grains prickled skin and scratched at eyes.
In the distance, the low clouds did not follow. They, with arms folded, loudly pouted at the spectacle on the tarmac and clucked.
On the tarmac, the wind began to whistle-loudly. Umbrellas left at home rattled, leaves fled trees and a hush fell.
The rain decided to fall another day.
Le Ciel est Bleu 