Petrichor

I'm in a coffee shop down the street waiting for the rain. I don't quite believe that it will actually rain. To that end, I don't have a jacket with me or an umbrella and am wearing sandals. The last few days have been beautiful bright fall days with a coda of coolness to remind us to snuggle up and make soup, because winter's coming. I had forgotten LA was capable of anything other than endless summer and I'm so happy to put away my tank tops and re-embrace the collared and sweatered contents of my wardrobe.

This past year has been a dry one and the year before that was dry as well. I've heard rumours that this is year two of a ten-year drought. I hope not. The first year I lived here was a winter of torrential rain (there's mostly no other kind in this place). The streets became rivers, billboards peeled, and the dry hills sprung into an Irish kind of green. Neko Case is correct when she tells you LA is beautiful when it rains.

So I'm keeping a weather eye on the palm trees growing in the Post Office parking lot across the street and smelling the breeze for clues.

And it just started raining.