Usually, scenes like this in Albuquerque happen in March. I guess this year, it waited until April to blow in. Yesterday, I found myself braving the elements. I was on San Antonio at San Pedro, looking west, as the wind roared through the city. The scene before me was both eerie and captivating—a reminder of how nature can transform the familiar into something almost unrecognizable.

The wind carried with it a thick veil of dust, reducing visibility and shrouding the streets in a sepia-toned haze. Traffic signs and power lines stood resilient against the gusts, while loose debris danced erratically across the pavement. The stark contrast of smooth asphalt against the chaotic, swirling dust highlighted the relentless force of the storm.

As I stood there, camera in hand, I could feel the wind pressing against me, an invisible yet undeniable presence. The dust stung my skin, and the howling gusts drowned out the usual hum of the city. For a moment, the streets felt deserted, as if everyone had sought refuge from the tempest.

Frankly, I was looking forward to getting home myself. When I finally arrived, I saw the toll the wind had taken—garbage bins scattered like fallen soldiers, trash strewn across driveways and sidewalks. My neighbors’ bins had suffered the same fate, their contents now part of the windstorm’s aftermath.

Windstorms like these are a stark reminder of nature’s unpredictability, especially in dry, exposed landscapes. They test our resilience, disrupt our routines, and leave behind an unmistakable imprint on the city. Even after the winds die down, their remnants linger—dust settled on windowsills, fallen branches littering the streets, and a collective sigh of relief as calm returns.

Have you ever been caught in a windstorm like this? What was it like for you?