Murky Sky

The air felt heavy. Back when I helped my father put his mother in the ground I learned not to compare Colorado's humidity with that of North Carolina's, but this certainly qualified as a sticky day for these parts. Early on, the blue sky and sunlight were swallowed by the curling and coiling Chinese dragon clouds, which hung pendulously over the mountaintops. Meteorological prophecy foretold of rain, and, a great deal of it at times. Monsoon in the High Country.

I feel that this has been a wetter summer than the last few. The last time I remember it being so moist was five years back, the last summer my mother was alive. There are differences, of course. The uniqueness of any given moment not withstanding, this year I don't have someone I care deeply for being eaten alive by some viciousuglymuthafuckigdisease-not bitter-and it's been rather hot. That one summer was cool enough that Sabina would often say her summer had been stolen.

It was the kind of day that spoke of not wandering too far afield. I unintentionally turned down a walkabout around Pass Lake, on the other side of Loveland Pass, in favor of scrabbling the boulder field opposite the rock wall I scrabbled a month and a half before. As much fun as I had, part of me imagined an anthropomorphic group of bighorn watching me thinking; amateur. There was a flat area on which I sat, taking in a grand view of Mount Pendelton. I caught myself thinking it'd be a grand place for a picnic that was in walking-and a minor climb-distance from home.

The day spoke of a lazy walk through the dirt streets of town. Pleasantries exchanged with neighbors. Of hot tea on the porch whilst reading Edward Abbey-Hayduke Lives! muthafuckas. Watching the murky sky churn slowly by. There was a wicked smirk of joy upon my face. I am a sucker for a gray day, but I might just suck.

Late in the day, it finally began to drizzle. A soft gentle sound. There was that clean scent that only comes with rain. It rained like Africa. Like Borneo and Brazil. Like the mountains of Colorado on a late July afternoon. Sipping my tea, I sat back on the porch to take it all in. A mystical set of moments in a place I firmly believe is fucking magic.

Meteorological prophecy speaks of continued rain and a cool-down before warming up for the weekend. So it goes. In a few days Sabina and I will be volunteering at a bluegrass festival, and it'd be nice to not be drenched, but that's still a few days off to worry about. In the moment I'm in, I watch the dragon clouds, swirling and coiling about in the heavy murky sky.