Monday, August 3, 2015
Now, the storms roll in almost every afternoon, clouds building and darkening, finally letting go in early evening. The rain comes down hard at first. It can go on for hours, or it can end quickly, a brief but intense shower that has the canales running and the arroyo rushing in mere minutes before it moves on. Some evenings, we can sit and watch it raining all around us, sheets of gray falling in every direction but not here. And sometimes we're the ones who get it, those of us tucked up against the bottom of the mountain. This night, the western sky stayed clear. The rain fell over us as the sun set, the sky moving through a spectrum of colors from west to east: flaming red to orange to gold, cooling to blue and violet and gray toward the mountain. Everything was bathed in golden-orange light and the shadows loomed. I stayed outside, under shelter of the porch roof, until the sun sank beneath the horizon. My world was only dark and wet then; the breeze felt chilly without the blaze of setting sun. The canales ran and the puddles grew. Our overgrown roses whispered against the garden wall and the wind chimes rang softly. It was eight-thirty on a Sunday night in the last real month of summer - already a little darker in the mornings and evenings, already a little cooler at midday, every flower already past its peak. It was cool enough for a sweater but I wrapped my arms around myself and stood there until it was too dark to see.