Shortly after I arrived at the library today, I was talking to Laura about how she sets up a spread sheet. "I can freeze this line, if I want, so that it stays on top even when I scroll. So I go to View . . . and then I click . . . ngggggg!" I looked over to see her face suddenly constricted into a look of shock and anger; her index finger had shot up like an attack dog, pointing just past the monitor.

"What is it?"

"Rain! And snow!"

Just then, the whole library rang with a pounding noise from the roof.

"And now hail! This has been happening every day this week, just as I have to ride home"

I looked out the window, where Laura's finger was still pointing rigidly in anger, and saw large streaks of every kind of condensation coming down at once onto the shivering pinyons, the skeletal branches of the newly-budding poplars, and the small juniper shrubs. Within seconds, everyone in the library ran over to press their faces against the windows in glee and wonder. Eight people ran over in a line and, like water from a faucet reaching the bottom of the sink, hit the wall and spread into a new line. Tutors and students stood together and gawked at the sight of the clouds descending to the earth like a mad swarm of bees.