Two inches of rain fell yesterday afternoon, pushing cookouts indoors for a few hours. In at least a decade of this gravel down and landscape cloth there’s never been a torrent like this one that washed it bare. Rivulets, rills, puddles, concentrations of debris. Fava beans have turned over their tops and had the bottoms of their leaves beat to hell from three separate hail storms. We stood on the far side of the valley on Pitkin Mesa and watched the deluge dump from the sky. “Look at that!” we said, pointing to our homes. Glad we were, we needed it. The poppy has grown four inches and formed its buds. The bees have one on guard and very few out.
Words cannot express the sorrow I feel for Marici, whose son died alone in a crash on July 4th. Ruth’s first grandson has come to meet the community at the age of one month, bringing joy in his tiny wake.
Domestic sunflowers bloom where I didn’t plant them. Scarlet runner beans have climbed the trellis and are now in glowing bloom. First buds of potatoes are showing as they’ve grown to the top of the barrel.
A single red poppy among onions and carrots opens slowly in this morning’s muted sun. I thinned two small beets from the ragged patch. Parsley grows bushy, basil regrows after the first batch of pesto. These leaves took a beating from the hail. Many others whose damage was not apparent right after the storm show bruising or tears. The garden cart, already full of potting soil, is filled with water.
Yesterday’s torrential rain has lifted the oppressive anxiety of fires, and we all move through today with a lighter heart.