A storm's sense

Welcome to monsoon season

Today’s accompanying tune: “Don’t Let it Pass” by Junip

I could feel it before I saw it. The dampness saturated the summer-hardened ground, so thick was the air with moisture that the earth sprang up to absorb its fill. The warm air sticky with anticipation, a departure from its usual moisture-wicking dryness that made triple-digit temperatures tolerable, at best. A light breeze tickled the branches from the southeast, a departure from its usual easterly flow. Even the sun, merciless as it was, seemed to absorb some of the ambient moisture and with it, dimmed its usual harsh glare. The earth, in such drought prior, released that magical scent, the one that no one can explain but anyone who’s spent some time in the desert could pinpoint in a heartbeat. Not that of the creosote, its own scent-celebrity, but something richer, darker, danker. Soil that has thirsted for so long that it is willing to take any ounce of moisture the air is willing to give up.

Soon afterwards, I know, clouds will rise. First, they are little more than small brushstrokes against the sky, tendrils just a shade or two lighter than that of the blinding blue summer sky. After weeks without relief, even a wisp is carrying the unbearable weight of hope on its back. Soon, it will mature. It will gather its arms around itself, wrapping all that moisture into the blooms that now cover it. It will rise, an unfathomable mountain of moisture above the dry desert floor. It, too, has a floor. As its head grows, its floor expands, ferociously encroaching on the sun’s birthright with a hunger that only inspires awe. It will spawn offspring, smaller, lighter versions of itself that are equally ambitious and equally ferocious. Each, carrying international waters only to let go when the time is exactly right.

They collect over mountains, obscuring the familiar landmarks to the east, the west, the south. North is nothing but expanse, the scale of which only comes into relief as a shadow of a cloud blankets an area I know to contain hundreds of acres. They send their sentries, but the armies are not far behind. They gather, first at the stalwarts high above the desert floor, soon on to conquer the desert itself. In the mountains they are ferocious, unleashing bolts of fury and rumbling growls as they contort themselves into, over, around, through the etched lines of rock. They untether soil from its base, send centuries-old trees tumbling down slopes as if they are nothing more than children’s toys. They, frankly, make a mess, once they run into humans, our roads, our homes. The cascade of earth and earthen materials fallen, left as casualties along a battlefield they entered into eons ago.

Newly emboldened or simply inspired, the clouds have the desert within their sights. The rolling hills and vast expanses give them room to run, room to grow. The soaring temperatures introduce instability in contrast to the crisp mountain air. Thousands of feet in the air, the heads are bulging, threatening to burst, impossibly tall and impossibly beautiful. Each fold, a glimpse into the depths of its plans, its potential, as they catch the weakening sun. Soon, the army will be upon us, ready to unleash its fury at a will only it knows. Why they choose the places they do, why some places remain a favorite, is one of the finer lines between science and philosophy. A cloud is not sentient, after all, but get ambushed enough times and it’s hard to avoid taking it personally.

From afar, the battlefield becomes muted, a haze of grays and browns as winds kick up and moisture finally, finally, releases. The head, so intricately built just moments before, will lose all of its definition, going back to its roots as simple wisps along the horizon. From the top to the floor, it lets out a sigh, a release so total that it lets its entire self fall to the earth below. First, it will be wind. The exhale itself. The cooler air interspersed between water droplets equalizes with the hotter air we humans inhabit, the offset in pressure matched only by the speed at which the air makes its escape. Then, rain. Big, fat droplets built throughout the afternoon tumble down, saturating what they can before they, too, make a run for it. There is only so many options the rain has — it cannot go into the densely packed soil, not as fast as it wants to move. So on it goes, over asphalt and loosely packed sand that has carried the water on its way for centuries, an impeding path when dry and raging torrent when not. It will gather and break, taking the path of least resistance to a destination it knows not. It searches, as hungry as it was aloft now earthside, for its place among the aquifers and reservoirs that channel it to its purpose, to life. To get there, it viciously takes on any opponent it encounters: roads yield, sending pieces of themselves along to appease it, the path of least resistance’s futile resistance rendered useless when it comes to water’s energy. Concrete barriers meant to direct it overflow and collapse; bridges meant to carry people safely over its rage succumb to the fury themselves. The droplets, now coalesced, travel miles, marveling at the clear skies ahead that give no indication of their origin. Eventually, they pool, finding low points of ancient lakes that existed long before humans learned how to divert the water for their own needs. Basins no longer collections of salt, but instead the prehistoric versions of themselves, full of water, full of the stuff of life.

And soon, with the wisps dispersing up high, the glare of the sun will fall. They will glow, their anger released, all that is left lit up as a beacon of success. Their journey from warmer waters complete, their mission accomplished. Their presence always known, always seen, always dealt with in its aftermath.

But first, it will be felt.

- Megan