The sky has opened again and a deluge of water pours off the shed roofs. The water bounces off the brim of my cowboy hat like a town square fountain, then down the back of my slicker. The outside of the water proof garment is as wet as the air around me. At least the downpour has chased away the gnats for a spell. “Rain, rain, go away…”
It is hard to believe that one year ago we were begging for moisture. Today, we are water logged from weeks of rain, and we can barely get one full day of honest sunlight a week. One extreme often follows another it is said. Two days of sun in a row would be cause for festive celebration. That being said, we have been fortunate thus far to escape the severe and often deadly weather other Midwest states have suffered .
I watch as the rain falls upon the fat green leaves of the hosta plants. The water cascades down leaf and stem like a parade of tiny dancers, as each drop pirouettes down to the pine bark on the ground below. Birds flit into the spice bushes, shaking the moisture from their feathers before hurrying off again. The limbs of the Japanese Maple are heavy and shiny with wetness, the branches bent with the weight of the endless drenching. The purple, yellow, and white Lillie's have all bowed in submission along the glistening old brick sidewalk.
The waterfall is oblivious to the added liquid falling upon it, and rolls steadily on down the rocks, and crashes into the rain pocked pool of water below. A drum roll of sound occurs as the wind picks up, and the trees shudder a shower of off cast droplets to the porch roof. Tree frogs are singing in the rain. One has positioned himself in the downspout at the edge of the porch. As he sings, the song echoes through the metal of the gutters, and adds reverberation to his music.
Yes it is a rain-soaked day here at the Chicken Ranch for sure, but there is plenty of activity if yo sit still and look and listen for it. I sip my coffee from my steaming cup, and listen to the pop and crackle of the cheery fire. It's soaking wet out there beyond the porch rail and into the flower gardens, but here, I am happy, contented, and dry.
I am contented, watching the steady rain and dancing flames, and the plants and animals playing their wet weather games.
The garden has sprung forth, and transplanted tomatoes, squash, peppers, and more, never wilted one iota after putting them in the ground. Trees I planted are doing well in the soggy soil. So, there is some benefit from this over-hydrated season.
Today though, I have decided to spend the remaining rainy hours on the back porch, listening to the cadence of the drops rat-a-tatting on the metal roof. I have built a fire in the fire pit to balance the chill and temper my mood. The glowing warmth of the fire soon produces a comfort against the damp chill that crawls across my neck. The spirit dance of flames in the creek rock cavern of the fire pit, are a visual comfort to me. The hot cup of coffee wrapped in my hands warms me inside.
Today though, I have decided to spend the remaining rainy hours on the back porch, listening to the cadence of the drops rat-a-tatting on the metal roof. I have built a fire in the fire pit to balance the chill and temper my mood. The glowing warmth of the fire soon produces a comfort against the damp chill that crawls across my neck. The spirit dance of flames in the creek rock cavern of the fire pit, are a visual comfort to me. The hot cup of coffee wrapped in my hands warms me inside.
I watch as the rain falls upon the fat green leaves of the hosta plants. The water cascades down leaf and stem like a parade of tiny dancers, as each drop pirouettes down to the pine bark on the ground below. Birds flit into the spice bushes, shaking the moisture from their feathers before hurrying off again. The limbs of the Japanese Maple are heavy and shiny with wetness, the branches bent with the weight of the endless drenching. The purple, yellow, and white Lillie's have all bowed in submission along the glistening old brick sidewalk.
The waterfall is oblivious to the added liquid falling upon it, and rolls steadily on down the rocks, and crashes into the rain pocked pool of water below. A drum roll of sound occurs as the wind picks up, and the trees shudder a shower of off cast droplets to the porch roof. Tree frogs are singing in the rain. One has positioned himself in the downspout at the edge of the porch. As he sings, the song echoes through the metal of the gutters, and adds reverberation to his music.
Yes it is a rain-soaked day here at the Chicken Ranch for sure, but there is plenty of activity if yo sit still and look and listen for it. I sip my coffee from my steaming cup, and listen to the pop and crackle of the cheery fire. It's soaking wet out there beyond the porch rail and into the flower gardens, but here, I am happy, contented, and dry.
I am contented, watching the steady rain and dancing flames, and the plants and animals playing their wet weather games.
