The monsoons have returned! I didn’t realize how much they had dwindled until their resurgence rekindled memories of summer. The last monsoon season I remember is 2006. It’s astonishing how quickly an environment can change. Now that they are back I recognize the patterns. Bird chatter picks up in variety and volume. The wind gusts suddenly from the east, whipping the branches of the citrus and fronds of the palm trees sideways. The outflow winds tell me a storm is on the way. The leaves are lit in neon yellows and greens as the sky darkens to a purplish indigo. Not long after there is a low rumble in the distance as fat drops land in the pool or concrete with gumball-sized splats. I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and second-guess whether it is lightning. Then I see the second bright flash moments later overhead as I shriek and run back inside. The Soleri wind bell on my porch rings insistently as the wind intensifies and the thunder gets closer.
The sky opens up and I hear the raindrops on the skylights. They get louder, more staccato, and I’m not sure if it’s rain or hail. I see the light blue flash of lighting simultaneously through the east and south windows. Seconds later thunder rumbles seemingly from all directions. A wall of rain blurs the view outside the windows. The storm gradually lessens, then lets up. I step outside and breathe in the scent of creosote unique to the desert. Everything smells bright and clean.The curve-billed thrasher is the first to start singing. Soon other birds join in. The rumbling clouds move on, leaving behind moisture-rich air that feels like a balm on my skin. The vegetables in my garden perk up, the birds feast on what’s been flushed to the surface, and there is a tangible renewal of energy that only a monsoon storm can bring.