Strange, strange light these days, flat and yellow, filtered through a scrim of dust. The santanas have been blowing for 36 hours now and everyone's on edge. Lips cracked, eyes red, skin sucked dry of moisture. Neighbors have gone from speaking to nodding to simply blinking a hello.
Kids have nosebleeds. Dogs howl at nothing and coyotes answer back. Fat sparks arc from the cats' fur. And on the beach this morning, a single windblown chair, facing Catalina.




