I sit in the easterly third of my bay window with the windows open, wide.  The blue sky to the south is shrinking as the heavenly-white sand dunes in the sky ripple their way across Lake, California, Clement, etc.  In the sun, it was hot a few minutes before and now in the grey sky it is still warm.  No wind, hardly a breeze out there; a scarce calmness felt in San Francisco.  It seems like the clouds above can't wait to release their moisture from the Pacific that they carried over who knows how many miles of endless sea.  The raindrops falling upon the yard, so tiny and light, feel like an east coast summer afternoon shower; where the slight moisture upon the earth releases a sweet smell that I can only recollect from t-shirt afternoons on the east coast.  These tiny drops create an almost white-noise, with no specific droplet to be heard.  Not enough moisture yet built up on the leaves or roofing shingles to grab your attention with their dramatic thud of sheer volume as they hit the ground below.