Thoughts of Home from Faraway

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My mother-in-law tells us via email it's been hotter there than she ever remembers it being.

I picture the thirsty trees in the orchard, the parched hills, everything dry and waiting, maybe the vague smell of smoke still lingering from the fire in Lompoc two days earlier.

90 degrees outside and it isn't even noon, says a friend, 91 inside my house, says someone else.

There's no wind, which is probably a good thing, since the wind there tends to be of the howling, gusting, unmitigated variety.

The beach is still, the ocean calm.

A friend of mine was giving a poetry reading in the valley.

And a neighbor died, not unexpected, but his family and community are entering that new realm of loss.

It's eight hours earlier there. Eight hours ago? They're sailing into night as we get ready to begin our day.