Monday, November 21, 2016


The wind carries the smell of rain. It blows hard out of the west and stings with the usual dust and debris of desert turbulence. But it is the scent of wetness, creosote, shaggy dog, a dash of mustiness, that makes the air sing. My legs feel like lead as I push my bike into the wind, alone. Solitude thrives on dusk, inclemency. I am glad to be out. The black dog has been sitting on my heart for a few days, one of which I could not rise for the weight. Darkness can be a burden sometimes. Getting a leg over the edge of the bed is about all I can do. Taking the bike off the hook and engaging inertia enough to get me rolling is Herculean. Yet here I am, out in the whipping wind, with rain sweeping down in a curved veil between me and the Tucson Mountains. It is coming. Thank you rain for the coming baptism, the relief, the open gates of grief. Thank you for feeding the washes, the canyons, the long, empty drop into the waiting pool beneath the waterfall.

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