I dreamed it rained last night.
In that haze of slumber, I floated to the deck doors and looked out on a glassy surface of wet wood reflecting light. I slid the doors open and walked outside.
My feet were cold as the wind pressed my nightgown against me, wetting my hair until it dripped. Water snaked its way down my face, the cool paths multiplying until I was nearly drowning.
The air smelled electric as the wind blew harder. The tree branches creaked and everywhere I looked, a high sheen coated surfaces.
My patio furniture glistened. My garden trowel shone. The plants were painted with silver.
I woke up this morning and looked outside, hoping for moisture on the ground, for the sound of drips from the gutterless roof.
There was nothing but dust, the brown and dying grass, the limp leaves of wilted lettuce reminding me to walk outside in my robe and water. The "worst drought in California history" continues, killing the hills, deadening the winter, robbing us of green.
I dreamed it rained last night. Maybe tomorrow it will.