(driving south on Highway 99, New Year’s Day 2026)

I’m at the wheel, he’s riding shotgun,
shooting through the windshield
at the unfolding skyshow—

from swift-moving gray clouds
raining tiny pearl-sized drops
with tails wiggling up the glass

like overeager tadpoles,
then, swithin a couple of miles,
breaking into wide open blue,

the likes of which we’ve rarely
seen for months in our corner
of this vast central valley,

marshmallow fluffy cumulus
loping lazily overhead, sun so
bright we reach for our shades,

lower the visors, bless the
California climate for staging
such a variety show on a

New Year’s Day that earlier
soaked a Rose Parade for
the first time in 20 years

but leaves us natives agog
at the wonder of weather
marching by in perfect

formation, each floating
marvel worthy of our
most heartfelt applause.

•••

With thanks to the guy riding shotgun (aka Dick Schmidt)
for the photos and the title that prompted this poem.