By Douglas V. Gibbs
The skies are filled with the brooding thickness of a stormy morning. Rain is pounding the steel roof of my office, blurring the image of the world through the window’s glass pane. The vicious flooding on the streets brings with it a renewal of much needed life-nourishing water. The growth of indigenous weeds are rising alongside green blades of new grass through the soaked lawn out front that was browning from the thirst of a drought only days before. The Siberian Husky has retreated to the safety of her dog house, and the palm tree stands tall, dripping from the onslaught of a week’s worth of much needed moisture.
With the needed rain comes a destructive force, as well. Hillsides stripped of ground-cover from last season’s fires are sliding downward, pouring mud onto the neighborhoods below. Creeks are flooding over, and storm drains can’t seem to eliminate the water fast enough from major intersections flooded with impatient traffic carrying bodies that are desperately trying to get to work. Trees have fallen, and automobile accidents have dotted the highways. But perhaps the most destructive part of the storms is the least explored consequence of all.
