jumping right into it all, the reason I can't write about durango today, either, is that it's stormy outside.
the sky is dense and thick and heavy, a solidly moving mass of gray upon gray. wind is whipping through the trees and rippling the top of the grass, and deep rumbling thunder waves are rolling over the valley.
no moisture yet, and it may not reach us at all, but I have hopes.
my windows are upon and I'm on high alert, as my trusty guard dog turbo lies cowering against the washing machine in the laundry room.
I hope it rains; I hope it rains hard and mightily until the sound of it dropping on my roof lulls me to sleep. I hope the air stays this heavy and moist until sunrise tomorrow; I hope the sky unleashes and drops every ounce of moisture it has left in its dark gray clouds.
I am so surrounded by walls and trees that I cannot see lightening if it flashes down, but my open windows allow every decimal of thunder to grace our airwaves, and I relish this.
it has cooled 8 degrees in the last hour, and I sit here patiently awaiting the rest of the storm.
thus I'm unable to mentally transport myself back to durango, as I am absolutely transfixed and held by the magical atmosphere surrounding my own small, familiar spot of the world.