desert wind... prologue

I'm thinking we're back. I can tell by the cold rain pelting my balding pate. I can feel it and worse yet, hear it. Ping-thuck-ping. I miss some things already, like 83 degree heat, a comfortable 3 mile morning walk followed by freshly squeezed orange juice and a grapefruit... all picked from our friend's back yard. Then I think there was a cigar each day followed by lunch and something white and refreshing from The Loire, circa 2005, then margaritas at 4pm, and something big and red for dinner that went with spaghetti and the New York Strips. I'm thinking that happened. I think I remember a Pouilly-Fuisse (sometimes known in certain subterranean wine geek circles as fussy pussy) melding perfectly with a barbecued rare salmon. But right now I just feel the cold and rain. My bones are returning to their pre-post-aching that I had thought I was accustomed to... okay with. I don't think I'm okay with that anymore. Time is short and warm ache-less bones seem more than reasonable. A sunny disposition seems reasonable, but I worry about things edgy, about losing my edge in prose and sometimes even pomp and circumstance. I like pomp and circumstance the way I see it and deliver it, with a brooding snarl at things perky and lofty and that other word: positive. There is proof positive those kind of dispositions are few and far between here in the region known to those familiar with the dark and dank. I can see it peoples faces each morning on  the way to work. I can feel it projected in the auras between the tragically hip and the politely aloof. In the valley of the sun,  I saw unconcerned smiles and arced eye-browed greetings... something more than what is minimally expected. I'm not sure if I'm disgusted with all that... or not. I'm not sure if I dislike a relentlessly perpetual sun-drenched zombie like zoning... or not. Something to ponder as I thumb through the classifieds.