It's Raining Again

A few minutes ago I heard thunder. It didn't register the first time, because we haven't had rain here since March. At first, I thought my next door neighbor was dragging his trash can out to the curb for tomorrow's pickup. Then, a second rumble rolled across the valley and bounced off of Black Mountain just to the north. Before I could realize that a storm might be brewing, hard, fat raindrops began to rattle on the hallway skylight, sounding like pebbles in a plastic cup.

I realized that unlike previous years when I anticipated the monsoons - really just thunderclouds that build up each day in mid to late summer-this year it sneaked up on me unawares. As mid July comes to the Sonora Desert, the temperatures heat up to 115 , the humidity climbs to 60 percent and humans and plant life alike begin to wilt and grow stressed. All dwellers of the desert begin to look skyward in the afternoons, waiting for the telltale buildup of eastern thunderclouds over the McDowell Mountains. Often, we are teased and tantalized for up to a week, waiting for the storms to finally crest the peaks, spill into the valley and pour welcome rain on us all.



The scrubby-looking creosote bush is like a French prostitute: what it lacks in beauty it makes up for in fragrance. Unlike it's French simile-mate, the creosote emits a clean smell - that signature scent of the Southwestern desert after a rain. I lay in bed and listened and smelled and then a thought struck me. I jumped up and ran out to the casita with a beach towel and crammed it into the open wound in the wall of my music studio/guest house where the contractor has ripped out the sheet rock in preparation for fixing the leaks under the the glass block window.

I was pummeled with heavy drops as I fumbled with the door lock and ran back across the small courtyard to the front door. I was wet, but I jumped back under the covers anyway, as the air conditioning and ceiling fan were freezing me.





Tonight, I'll go to sleep with the sound of the rain lightly pecking on my bedroom window and the distant grumbling of the sky as the monsoon rolls across the desert valley. Silent will be the usual midnight cries of the coyote packs collecting their family members and warning off their rivals. Tomorrow morning, the plants will be perky and happy, as will the people and the coyotes. But by noon, all will be dry and hot again and faces , snouts and leaves will turn skyward, wondering whether today's clouds have the strength to come down from the mountains and pour another drink.

We are all so thirsty.