People who haven't grown up in Tucson or Phoenix or some other desert community just don't understand rain. In theory, such people should understand it more, because they've most definitely experienced it more, but they don't.
In the desert, rain isn't just an inconvenient natural phenomenon. It's a religion. The sky gets overcast and social networks for miles explode in anticipation. The air gets really tense and all the animals get quiet. The wind picks up. And, before long, the first raindrops fall from the sky. Some would say that isn't rain, that it's just "sprinkling" but oh, it's rain. It's un-treated, never been bottled water straight from heaven. Rain.
And sometimes, it doesn't just rain, it storms. Drops turn into pales that seem to fall in sheets, flooding and rolling over the dry, cracked ground, bringing out the stupid in every driver in a ten mile radius, and providing a show more entertaining than any television show. And afterwards, the air is clean. Glade and Febreeze would pay millions to bottle that freshness. And even later, after the clouds have cleared and the drainage dishes have done their work and the weeds have sprung between the cracks on the sidewalk, we're already waiting in anxious anticipation of the next one.
No comments:
Post a Comment