I’m sitting listening to the rain fall outside my window, which is wide open, as is the door to my balcony. The drought plaguing my state hasn’t broken, but the monsoon has arrived, and the verge between the street and the retaining wall defining the boundary of the apartment complex has changed color, from tawny sand to sagey, silvery green. The desert bushes reach happily to the sky, their long fingery leaves a pale green tinged with blue. I thought summer in the desert would be a burning furnace, but today as most days, as the sun has sunk low, the apartment is filled with a cool breeze. The day began bright blue and gold and clear, so one day offers the best of all worlds.
The physical landscape is what I will miss most about this state. Where I’m going isn’t radically different, but with fewer/smaller trees and more/bigger cacti. The sunsets are supposed to be even more beautiful. My beloved desert cottontails should be there as they are here, although here, my apartment company irrigates the complex, and the the rabbits flock to the green green grass like it’s a Vegas buffet. There, you also get tall, rawboned, long-legged hares, much tougher and meaner looking than the fluffy bunnies I greet when I leave the apartment or return home. It makes me feel like I know somebody here.
My complex overlooks a major north/south road, running along the base of the mountains. A gaggle of motorcycles swoop past my window, roaring and buzzing. They travel in packs, loud and obnoxious and social, enjoying how fast they can go, ripping through the clear evening air, gone before the noise of their exhaust reaches me.