A storm is here. I woke to soft rain that stopped while I did my morning net news rounds, but then the thunder came, far off at first and then shaking the house with a long, low rumble that promised an angry truck screaming up my street. But now the real rain is here and it’s insistent, but soft, calming. It’s really raining, but it’s not pounding; perfect for morning. I’m tempted to go back to bed just to listen to it. I’ve loved the Idaho sky and sunsets since my first days here, five years ago, but the weather still impresses me too. Storms here have character, have passion. We’re a dot in a valley between mountains and desert, and the scale of a storm taking on this environment make me feel suitably little.

Eight years in Los Angeles and I think I heard thunder all of twice, and the seasonal rain tended to be perfunctory and relentless, as though it kept checking its watch and worrying about a timetable. The rest of the year the near-constant sunshine, while fun at first, in the end just seemed oppressive. Today will be just like yesterday, and too bright for you. If you had air conditioning in your car you could ignore the heat and maybe miss the message, but to me it was clear: you are going nowhere with your work here, and today will be a rerun. Go to a movie, just to find somewhere physically dark to be. Or stay up all night, restless, wandering the city just to appreciate the lack of glare. But here, though, I feel anything is possible in the sky, and perhaps, then, anything is possible with me. Except, I suppose, mowing the lawn before tomorrow.


This was published on 27 Jun 2005.
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