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When it rains in the desert, the fires of Hell go out (temporarily).

It is raining hard enough to put out the fires of Hell.
It will not put out the fires of Hell because then there would be no desert here.
But we have been watching a small frog trying to climb our fence
because he (or she) is convinced that there shall soon be
forty days and forty nights of rain, followed by an Ark with things that eat frogs.

Our backyard is sloped rather markedly.
The former owner of the house made stone-lined causeways
where the water was going to run, anyway, and they not only filled:  they disappeared!
I painted a patio-table base, designed to hold a ceramic pot to be covered
with a glass top, and the pot is half-full of water.

The Sonoran Desert, not to be trifled with when the sun is shining,
is one of the wettest deserts on the continent, usually getting from 3 to 16 inches
of rain a year, and this is one of the years when nature is catching up.

We can see the intersection of El Camino de Oeste and . . .  Whoops!

A bolt of lightning just flashed, and Mari just said something they rhymed
with "Ole's hip", but I suspect that is just an announcement that the end is near.
If things get any worse, Annie, our cat, will soon quit eating and get religion,
and Mari will be off with Jesus on her way to the Holy Land (Iowa),
and I will be left here all alone with traces on the hillside showing that once
there was a flash flood that washed away my cat, my wife, and my pickup.

That reminds me of something Dale Johnson used to ask us:
"Do you know what happens when you play a Country and Western
record backwards?  You get your pickup back, you get your gun back,
you get your job back, your wife back. . . ."

Things will work out.  Hell will return, and Jesus won't come.  

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