To the East Fort Collins carries on according to its own logic, with weather subtly adjusting the mood of all.
To the South flash floods ravage low lying areas of the Front Range. Two human lives confirmed lost as dams break, bridges and rails are knocked out, and massive structural damage. I ponder how vulnerable our infrastructure is along the edges of the mountains, sipping coffee gifted to my household by a new friend, imported from I know not where.
To the West Mountain folk reschedule their weeks to accommodate nature. Parts for a Wind Tower are sold, the technology, even according to those who make them, proving to be barely practical for most purposes. The viability of life in the mountains dependent on constant repair of roads, which serve as a constant reminder that even mountains are liquid when measured against the standards of fixed lines on a map.
To the North I look out the kitchen window, writing this, eyes fixed on a pile of compost in the back yard, light rain falls on it and fog erupts from its summit. Inside a drama of countless species and players works its self out, shuffling carbon and nitrogen, breathing, and warming itself. Different temperatures support different civilizations and cultures, over lapping, struggling and cooperating on common priorities. On a time scale of days to me, but countless generations to the utterly different inhabitants of the pile, the pile evolves, different chemical composition and the supply of carbon slowly winds down, the pile will soon start its long cooling process. Many of the colonies and cultures formed in the pile will reach their end, only to wait a long long winter before their rebirth in the spring garden.