Walking in my pajamas from the nice cool house outside to the porch, the heat unexpectedly smacks my face. The buzz of the overworked air conditioner compressor drowns out the sounds of birds, yet the bugs’ buzzing is drowning out the compressor. In the distance, the rap of a hammer — someone is up early, working on their dream home.

A blanket of fast-moving Prussian blue clouds hovers over the land, with bits of Creamsicle-colored sunlight peeking through. A soft, muted rustle of wind makes the treetops of my scrub oaks sway ever so slightly. Then there is a low, peaceful roar as wind rushes between branches. The little family of squirrels chirrups as if to say, “Take cover, rain is coming! Get OUT of those trees, kids!” Suddenly the wind picks up to a true roar, the trees bending as a raptor glides overhead, its wings spread wide. Soon my safe, covered corner of the back porch on this old house will keep me dry as storm-watching, one of my favorite porch sports, begins. Nothing quite so poetic exists in my little world as the security of my dry little corner as chaos comes from the skies above.

Heat is radiating down on me this morning, the warmth of the summer sun. Spring didn’t last long here, and it’s already almost 80, just after sunrise. I can feel the warmth on my skin as I absorb my Vitamin D in the bright red Adirondack chair here on the back patio. Squinting from the brightness, I can barely make out the screen on my iPad with all the reflections around me. I’m always grateful when winter leaves and summer arrives.

Nestled in my cozy covers, I’m awakened by a blinding light penetrating my closed eyelids. Opening my heavy lids, I leap out of bed, wanting to capture a photo of the light streaming through the back lot, where a row of trees are in shadow, with golden rims of light around their tops, highlighting their unique shapes. Below them, a field of intense burning light with the silhouettes of dozens of twisted, gnarly tree trunks, and from them long shadows are cast.

Crack! The massive cracking sound slammed the all-metal water tower on the country road in front of our property, and it reverberated like a giant speaker. Sheets of rain are pouring down, an Armageddon of water from our roof. Zero visibility has eliminated my view. Silence does not exist as the wind howls and pellets of rain slam the metal roof. Suddenly I’m startled by an annoying emergency flooding alert on my phone. Yet the family sleeps, unaware of the chaos.

Dark gray clouds loom overhead, sleet and rain come down in sheets, and I’m bundled up in my puffy black down jacket, ready to brave the cold final days of winter in Cleveland. But that was Friday.

The sunrise yesterday morning, and each morning in Santa Fe, was brilliant and colorful, and back at home, this morning’s sunrise is equally beautiful but coming up over a different mountain. Santa Fe had long mountain ranges and plateaus of purples and blues; my distant mountain is socked in with fog, making it a grayish blue against a warm yellow sky.

An adobe fireplace is warming me on this chilly morning as I sit in my room, smelling burning mesquite wood, hearing the crackling embers, and staring sleepy-eyed at the brown adobe walls, the dark, carved wooden doors, and photos of Native Americans in ceremonial clothing.

Tweeting took on its original meaning as I awoke to the golden orange sunshine, which places a rim of intense light around the edges of my scrub oaks this morning. The weeds, bushes, and tall grasses are glowing like fire.

Peaceful? Not exactly how I’d describe what I was thinking might be a quiet morning. The roar of passing cars fills the air, road rage with someone laying on the horn for what seemed like a full minute, and some muffled sounds of obscenities screamed out a car window. I thought that even Philadelphia would be immune to noise this early. I was wrong.

Today’s brilliant cobalt blue sky is filled with big, puffy clouds, dark on the bottom and rim-lit with yellow sunrise light. Tiny feather-like light green leaves are showing up on the bare branches, and blossoms of pink and white are filling my favorite tree. Birds are chirping out “Spring is in the air!” and I’m finally able to get back to my porch without a blanket or sweater. Soon bluebonnets will fill nearby farmers’ fields, seducing me and my easel.

The small sound of pellets of rain has turned into a roar, louder and louder as the rain hits the tin roof in my art studio, where I sit this morning.

Dark billowing clouds are dancing overhead and the muted orange sun is streaming rays out over the Atlantic ocean. Balmy air is met with a quiet breeze as palm fronds playfully move about from side to side. Cathedral bells ring out and echo off the old historic buildings. Unexpectedly, I hear distant music in the streets, the soundtrack of Cuba. I’m up earlier than normal this morning and instead of the usual porch in the backyard, I’m on the upper deck on top of a hotel in Havana.

Nestled in my art studio this morning, my bare feet wrapped under a blanket, which covers me keeping the chill off. The whir of a small space heater trying to play its part. Chilled raindrops slowly and methodically pinging on the metal roof above me.