The Front

A cold front approaches, the first in some time, and that guarantees a stiff southwesterly. At the beach farm, that means a cool winds blowing in off the ocean, salt spray depositing a slight film on my skin, and the sound of crashing waves as I garden.

There will be storms this evening. I say look to the skies between 7 and 8 pm. These won't swell and develop the way stagnant air produces afternoon storms, nor will they make a show of clouds long before the embedded activity. No, tonight's storms will come with only little notice, and full of gust and thunder. If there's garlic to harvest, I will do it before the first crack of that electrical whip.

The storm strafes the city on the bias, reaching north before south. The winds are strong, blowing both the tumult of waves and whining of a lone bagpiper. Garlic is harvested, along with several heads of lettuce, a giant elephant leek scape, cilantro, chard, and the beautifully sweet anise of the vulgar fennel.

Update: it is hard to believe that we escaped with virtually no rain, no storm at all. Weather is a fickle beast.