Last night I was nostalgic for thunderstorms. They came as I slept. I didn't hear them. I was dreaming of lions.
Today the clouds show their new white in glimpses. Thick bright clouds roll over them in waves.
Here in the gym the air is cold. I breathe it in. Without my glasses, the class is a blur of black shapes against yellow. They are little windmills, jacks, black birds. They hop and turn in a loose unison, little bare feet slap the cold floor. Testing today. I watch Orion prepare himself, going through motions with the wobbly grace unique to nine year old boys. He must contend with a center of gravity that changes from week to week, confusing his muscle memory until it 
scratches its head and sits this one out.
scratches its head and sits this one out. Orion will have to rely on concentration tonight.
I'm a little nervous for him. But then, we've prepared, practiced, increased his chance of success.
I embrace the cold air. I feel it rise up from the floor, blow gently past. The gym isn't heated. Finally I can admit I've fallen in love with this desert. But I could leave it, for a while at least, for some place with seasons.
Some place with thunderstorms.
I'm nostalgic for thunderstorms.
As much as I love this desert, it may never be home.
Orion has traded his white belt for a yellow one.
