The raindrops are the size of paint splatter. The gods taking a page from Jackson Pollock. These last few days the weather has been schizophrenic. Cold weather followed by a late summer day in April, a mad thunderstorm as the hot and cold fronts battle behind the skyscape. Hot, cold, hot, cold. An in-between monsoon wind and rain.
It’s over before I can sneeze, the rain drops linger on the petals and leaves and the metal stairs like morning dew.
Then I see the passion flowers bursting amid the rosemary, and all is right again.