Recently, we experienced a wild rainstorm here in the Bay. Although the rain was icy cold, the storm was almost tropical in its suddenness. Winds ripped through, and the rain fell fast and furious. With my window open, I could hear the wind snapping through the dry palm fronds. I closed my eyes, allowed myself to fall inside that dry rustle pressed into pounding rain, and was soon drifting off to sleep and back through tropical landscapes, once so comfortable and familiar, now far far away. I think I spent the night in the back of valleys, under waterfalls, beside waves.
When I woke the next morning, the storm had fled. Skies were blue, the earth damply black, and I, of course, had not moved from my bed. Out my window, the BART train clattered, crows cawed, seagulls swooped, and somewhere far away, sirens. West Oakland was alive and well, still cheerily welcoming spring.
When I walked out onto the Street, I came upon a thing of beauty that I tried (not too successfully) to capture on film. The tropical storm that rattled my palms had produced blizzard conditions, and all the blossoms of the flowering plum trees had been blown to the pavement below.
Our very own California snow.
Like most spring snows, this 'snow was gone by afternoon, not melted but blown aside by traffic and whatever breeze came along, but it was lovely, worth a smile or two, to see this early morning 'snow,' so thick in places that it gathered in drifts along sidewalk edges.