A Winter Soaking

 A soaking rain came to us over the weekend. The front came in a couple days ago, yielding grey skies and sprinkles. The smell of rain came to one's nostrils as one opened to the door. 

Yesterday the skies opened up in a downpour from a winter thunderstorm. The rain came heavy and persistent. Thunder filled the sky. The sound of rain was like a music.

In mid afternoon the sound changed. We looked outside and we saw pea-sized hail bouncing on the roofs nearby. It filled the streets like snow. Children came out to play in it, with their parents taking photographs, and scooping up handfuls of the hail to hold up in selfies for social media.

I had seen the storm clouds coming in while walking earlier that day, out in my undeveloped desert. When the rain started coming, I thought of venturing out to see the dry washes turn into flowing streams, as I like to do. But the rain was cold and I wanted nothing but to stay inside and feel cozy while the earth absorbed the moisture.

By the time I got outside in late afternoon, after a break in the rain, the flow had receded into the ground. I inspected the bed of the wash around the ironwood to see the swirling patterns left by the recent flow. In recent weeks I had noticed how the wash there had filled up my footprints, from my meditative pacing.

Now the sandy wash was freshened with a popcorn texture from the pounding of the hail. Gone were all of my footprints, and any trace that I had spent any time there. Somehow that was pleasing.

It was just before sunset. The ceiling of the storm clouds was breaking up a bit, and the lowering sun was hitting the clouds at an oblique angle as it approached the horizon, casting tangerine hues over the mountains and the trees. It was the rare light that one seeks and cherishes.