Forecast

It really is funny
How the wind blows my way.
When sirens are blaring,
And the sky is so grey.

Some consider it silly
When I tell them there's trouble.
The whirlpool that's silent,
But it viciously bubbles.

Maybe I'm too sensitive,
When the smoke rises above.
There's no need to call someone.
The fire just needs some love.

I was born with large ears,
And a smaller than average mouth.
So I listen for the chaos,
And I know when it goes south.

It really is strange
How folks don't know my name.
They tell me about the weather,
But don't see the clouds of shame.