A huge subtropical low is circling around the head of the gulf of California. Big green blobs are moving across radar screens over our corner of the continent, and it is raining in San Diego county. One storm cell — one great big storm cell that has dumped rain all over the flash flood desert and then the mountains — is coming, is coming toward me crackling with lightning and thunder, and... although diminished in force... is still headed straight toward me and us, rolling southwest from Cuyamaca, straight toward the border. It is beginning to rain on Otay mesa, the announcer says. It is 4:30 pm standard time, 5:30 daylight time.

I decide to go meet T with an umbrella. Walk through the two and three blocks of our neighborhood houses and shops and hole-in-the-wall customs broker offices, cement streets and car-parked sidewalks, over toward the border gate. Up the dirt path in front of plaza california mini-mall (with its name-brand Caliente bookie satellite gambling hall) up the long dirt path lined with scrubby eucalyptus stumps up the half-mile dirt path where thousands walk every morning two and three and one at a time to work, up the dirt path, the path still dry. Still dry. It will soon be wet. It will be too wet to walk on coming back it will be all muddy. I am still early. Have a hot dog at the cart near the pedestrian gate sidewalk. Watch the clouds getting darker and bigger and heavier. It is almost time. Cross over through the first drops of sprinkling pitter patter across the lanes of backed up traffic waiting to go north, and then spend an hour waiting on the sidewalk under the big metal Mexican customs station roof.

And as I wait there, the rain comes. Darkness shrouds our heaven spreading from the mountain. Lightning flashes, flickering first in the distance, then closer and closer as thunder crashes faster, and water showers down from the sky.

Not a heavy rain, mind you. Just a California shower. But the bolts flicker across the sky and the clouds grumble and crash and God... God pees all over us, gentle cosmic muffin pee, not the hairy thunderer whizz of an angry God, no, this be purely an intimate, gentle April showers bring May flowers lightweight elvish little storm. Oh my Jesus Christ God have mercy this here is just a little hobbit storm compared to that shinola I saw when I lived back east and experienced storms "real" storms that rip out entire trees and slaughter buildings to rubble and electrocute animals and burn the earth into smokey charcoal so I ask you kind reader to please pardon me my blasphemy. Nevertheless it it it it is quite exciting for a few minutes. About as much excitement as we ever get, weather-unwise, out here on the gentle boring coast of lotus-eaters uh huh. So I wait and watch. The storm comes. The storm goes. Holes open up in the sky and light shines down behind the mountain in the east. Kind of weird. If you watch the heavens, sometimes you see strange things. Nature is... stunning, sometimes, even when she's being hobbit-like and bored waiting for afternoon tea behind the columns at colonial hotel.

I wait an hour and a half. But my love she never comes. Someone gives her a ride home, as I will find out later when I go back to the house. She tells me she drove right by me while I was staring up at heaven. She did not see me. I did not see her. Oh well. At least she got home safely.

At least I saw the spring storm. Yes, Virginia, David, there is a spring shower. There are seasons, although, like you said, yes, only for ten seconds. Today alone. Wham.

How strange.

Flash crash splash.