His pennant blowing out like a prayer flag high in the Himalayas, Reg’s lower limbs bask in still, warm air.
The famous microclimates in our area were cut into even thinner slices for me today.
By Reg Green
On the way to the farmers’ market in Pasadena I’d driven and then walked through areas where fierce winds had littered sidewalks with branches and palm fronds but where now the air was so calm that not a leaf was stirring.
But it was not till I got home in the foothills that I experienced the full 57 varieties. Remember the whalers in Moby Dick thawing out on a bitterly cold day in front of a roaring fire, their chests and faces in the tropics, their backs still in the polar regions?
Something like that happened to me: when I sat on a bench in the yard my feet and legs, sheltered by bushes were where all was calm in the warm sun but around my head the wind swirled, cold and blustery. I felt like an entire mountain, a 5′ 5″ Mt. Whitney.
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