#126 – Tuesday, August 20th
The monsoons wind up and plow through. Stacks of white billowing conundrums, foreshadowing torrential rains or haboob. One thing certain, it seems a spoiled child thrashing its toys about with a crash, parts scattered haphazardly, propelled by angry winds. My view is easterly to the McDowell Mountains, and I need to look over my shoulder to see it coming. In the end some get it, some don’t and I’m in the some don’t column. My theory, being nestled in the shadow of two mountains (at least what passes for mountains in Phoenix) creates a peculiarity protecting me from such fury. Every now and again a broken branch, a welcome down pour, and a front row seat to natures performance art.
Thanks for reading.