When it rains, you’ll find me hovering on my porch. There’s an unwritten rule. When you live in the desert, every rain-laced event is seen, felt, and recorded.
I was born in England. I spent the majority of my life there. It’s been just over a decade since I left. And that’s apparently the right amount of time to see rain as a thing of beauty versus the daily frustration it was.
But things are different in the desert.
In England, the rain is a constant. Sometimes so light, you can barely feel it. Lulling you into leaving the umbrella at home. The consequences of that poor decision leave you feeling the wet to your bones hours after you’ve returned home.
It rains in huge deluges here. They sometimes don’t last long. And they’re almost always an occasion.
Especially as the sun starts to set. Still breaking through fat clouds. Creating all sorts of warm, golden colours that make you forget it was just pissing it down five minutes ago.
The only signs of the downpour are my wet socks.
Taken on 13 March, 2025 in Phoenix, Arizona.
Seen something small worth noticing?
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