Monsoon

 

Its a dramatic time in the desert. 

July’s heat is swift and brutal.  Plants whither, humans sweat and sigh.  It chokes you up and slows you down. Insignificant tasks become a struggle. Even those of us with air conditioning are reminded of our weakness below the glaring orb in the sky. And when the first clouds form late in the day, its not gentle rains they bring: those black behemoths pummel us senseless.

And yet, even now, in the oppressive heat there are signs of a shift. 

The moon is swallowed up into blackness but again starts anew, a sliver of hope slicing up the night.

A few overripe tomatoes in our garden spill their juicy contents into the soil, feeding the next generation.

The rain, in all her violence, also purifies.  Plants green up, children play in the street, adults stand in amazement at lightning shows, which illuminate the sky. 

In early July in the desert, we are on the edge.  Balancing a fine line between sizzling destruction and a new beginning. Life is a struggle, but then there is always glittering hope to carry us through.

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