9" x 12"
I’m in the airport waiting for my flight home. It’s raining, and most people I’ve talked to here are darn sick of it. Not me. I love it. We don’t see a lot of rain in Wrightwood. When we do, it tends to be a torrential downpour that scours tons of earth, boulders, and dead trees off the ridge behind us. Here, it’s been a steady light rain, with a glimpse of sun here and there.
The desert rains are much like ours: infrequent and full of gusto, going from dust to raging flashfloods in a matter of minutes.
The rust on these milk cans weren’t the result of a drizzle, but probably several years of pounding desert rain. This wasn’t a gentle rusting. But then the desert is rarely gentle.