The wind whirls around to snatch umbrellas from the hands of the unwary. Like a fullback, faking a run down the field only to switch directions to grab a pass out of thin air, it blows northerly, then cuts back to abruptly pluck your umbrella like a giant, bright orange dandelion seed lofted into the air to sail down the street and crash into the filthy gutters.
If you are crafty enough to hold onto it, revenge will be exacted in the form of a destroyed, inverted umbrella, popped by a sudden gust into a useless satellite dish fit only to receive rainwater. The best thing to do is dance with the push and pull of the wind as it leads you in a waltz down the street, lifting and swooping your umbrella in leaps and arcs to a tune that sounds like a mournful sigh.
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