#171 (untitled)

It’s the wrong season. 

The Santa Ana winds blow through Las Vegas. It’s spring. They bring rain. Not their usual pattern of dry, autumn heat. 

The wind doesn’t care. 

The morning started off with blue skies and no clouds. A slight chill to the air. 

You could hear the birds sing in relief. The worst was over. 

The night before, the ocean had fallen on the desert. Before the lightning, before the thunder. Rain. Lots of it. 

Enough to make Noah begin a new project. 

But this morning, it was over. Everything seemed fine. 


But the wind had another the plan. 

The Devil’s Wind came howling through the valley. Spirits on horses ride the thunder, lightning crackling beneath their hooves. 

They are coming. 

The ghosts laugh and the new leaves shudder and fall from trees. 

The sky turns black. The air cold. Ice and rain come together. 

It’s a spectral stamped high in the clouds. An army. A war. Death cries and history repeating. 

The West is still wild if you know where to look and how to listen. 

The wind cried then gently died with the last drops of rain. 

The Santa Anas, the Devil’s Wind, blew on towards California. 

Let the City of Angels deal with it. 


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