Last week, morning walk: mist rising off the playing fields, frost on peaked roofs. Winter here starts in December, cold mornings and rain if we’re lucky.
Since then, we are indeed lucky: nearly two inches of rain, as measured by the backyard gauge. It’s been slow and steady, the best kind for sinking in. Green weeds burst through the bare earth around the citrus trees and jacarandas. Morning sun gilds the palm tree across the street. My breath steams like the fire we all claimed to breathe as children, when we imagined we were dragons.
something happens next 