In winter, my father climbed our steeply pitched roof with a shovel, almost as dexterous as a goat. We kids dug endless marble tunnels—warm as igloos—in drifts that the morning plow pushed against our fences. Now I have forsaken the country of snow. The view from my terrace is like a museum diorama of the Mesozoic. I step barefoot through sliding glass onto Spanish tile to watch the downpour, a window of water flowing inches from my face.
waiting for the rainbow
of ice caps melting