On Christmas Day, 2025, the second storm of three had passed and the rains were no more.

We went out for an early morning walk on our street where the palm fronds littered the road.

On other streets the light was cinematic, filtered through the clouds, casting golden hues on banal buildings, arranged through heavenly contract by the Chief Gaffer, Mother Nature.

Only a few days in a year, if we are lucky, is Los Angeles drenched in rain. It transports all the motor oil, fertilizer, cigarette butts, and grease into the few unblocked storm drains and down to the Pacific. For a while we can imagine that we live in a tidy and green city.