Rain in the Old Pueblo

"Just think," says Shari to me at six in the morning. "If we were in the Northwest, it would be like this every day."

Well, not every day, but the point was well understood.

It started raining at about four-thirty. Lightening lit up our dark bedroom. The sound of torrential rain followed thunder. Three hours later, it's still raining. The sky is overcast, it's cold, and our moods are a trifle grey.

"Think of the energy you are saving not having to mow lawns." Once again, Shari was right.