With all the wind and clouds and sudden storms, rainbows and thunder and moments of sun, it felt more like a Caribbean island here yesterday than our typical California binary of rain or shine.
If you were at the pier today, you pretty much had it all to yourself.
You're hearing wind and surf and PCH.
Meant to wake in time for the pre-storm sunrise but caught just the tail end of it from the front yard.
The bridge up ahead and the bend in the road and the sound and scent of the creek, the breeze and new leaves and -- well, you get the idea. You walk and you walk and you keep on walking.
Even from afar you could see something was different about the hawk, the usually tidy silhouette somehow askew.
Closer up, under his unflinching scrutiny, it became clear he was just drying his feathers, wings and tail unfolded and unfurled.
On such a winter's day.
Stormy Solstice Canyon this morning, where Maisie
wore tolerated her rain coat.
Goodbye, weird and funky Malibu Riviera Motel, where surfers and day laborers and the occasional Mercedes-driving traveler got what they paid for at $99 per night. It's been spiffed up, re-branded, and the prices hiked (not astronomically, for Malibu) to $189. The ghost of the Dume Room mourns.
One walk in the rain was all it took for Walter, who's highly absorbent, to learn to love his raincoat.
But Maisie, whose Lab genes render her drip dry (and who has PETA on speed dial) prefers to go au naturel.
Not sure whether the groundhog saw his shadow and don't know what it means if he did, but here on the coast we have the first stirrings of what's bound to be an abundant wildflower season this spring.
There were times during the drought (the one that's not over, no matter what the rain gauges may say) that parts of the little lake in the Santa Monica Mountains went dry and turned to pasture.
Now, the banks are brimming, the dam's overflowing, the creek is running and the water is churned to a rich, muddy brown.