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.