Not a breath of air moves, a soaking rain
has been falling since dawn. Colors have intensified, the mature greens, rich
yellows and reds of fall. The smell of leaf mold permeates the air, reminding
me of so many rainy autumn days and times spent in forests I love. I’ve made a
cup of tea, and now at my desk sip the hot tangy liquor. Tendrils of steam rise
in the chill house.
Water collects on seed pods of white lacy
vine just outside the living room door. The vine has had a good time this summer,
engulfing the coyote fence around the patio. Droplets form, swell and hang, each
a tiny brilliant lens on the world. When surface tension can no longer hold
them together they fall. They’ll find their way through the timber deck, to the
roof and out the canale, hang briefly on the lip of the metal flashing and fall
again. Onward in their march to the sea.
I walk into the village to check in with
goings on and have some lunch. My jacket is made for rain, and just about anything
else Mother Nature can throw at it. Remarkable, how snug and secure a few thin
layers of fabric can be. Rain drops hit puddles, tiny waves spread out in
concentric rings, intersect with one another and dissipate. Border plantings of
marigolds along the flagstone walkway to the State Law Library are yielding to
fall, the blossoms are tired, yet today in the wet, their orange and red
vibrate with one last hurrah against the lush deep green of clipped grass lawn.
Heading south on Don Gaspar between Water
and West San Francisco Streets I encounter a couple walking north, both are
thoroughly engrossed in their respective phones, both of which seem to be
chattering at them. One of the phones says with triangulated authority, “In
twenty feet, go right.” It scares me, the sense of context, the potential
connection to our surroundings and one another the greater we who glue our
noses to these things are missing out on. But on the other hand, statistics on
world population show only 34% of us have internet access. So I guess there’s
hope.
The French Pastry Shop at La Fonda is a
beehive of activity. Everyone’s thinking the same thing. We want hot coffee and
good things to eat; today in the wet and chill we exhibit no shyness regarding
butterfat. I quickly take a small table beside the window, one of my favorite
places to sit, and order the aforementioned coffee and a piece of spinach
quiche. I pull a pen and sheet of paper out of my pocket. Having already done
more than my share of staring at a screen today, the simple blank page before
me, ready to absorb my thoughts, is a relief.
The quiche arrives, steaming hot, oh pastry
crust, butter and eggs, cream, oh the delicate and savory browned cheese on
top. Oh spinach. Each bite is a gift. I write and watch passersby, people seem
to be moving quicker than usual. I had no idea so many umbrellas even existed
in Santa Fe. Most are basic black (suitable for formal occasions), a few are
fashionable colors, moss green, eggplant, periwinkle blue, and yet others are
full on design statements, brilliant multicolor stripes, or polka dots.
Rain comes down harder, the sidewalk puddles
fill, each surface a riot of ringlet waves. The water finds the breach; there
are an infinite number of ways it gets in, and only one way out.
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