I did not believe the thunderstorm cloud on the forecast at 5:30am. Rain does not happen here, in the land of drought, the region of a 13 inch rain deficit, of no second hay cut, of short-lived stunted crops and livestock sold too early, of 20% chance of rain.
But dawn snuck up in a twilight kinda way and stayed like that while we made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for school lunches. As we put together backpacks and lunchboxes, the raindrops arrived. First, a rumble of thunder in sync with footsteps across the kitchen floor. Then, a flash of lightening illuminated everything. So bright, it left a violet-red after-image of the back yard behind.
The downpour was torrential as we went to one school and the other, sending out car-high sprays of water. We were a silver grey coach enroute to the event of the season on wings of shining spray.
As I return home, the rain is lighter, the hills are clearer but this place is now misty, mysterious, haunting and familiar. It strikes me that one of my very favorite things about being here is how the mist rises up from the hills and hollows. The rising water vapors create a feeling of home, of protection and shelter. Of specialness, of living in the very first place ever created. And that is of course just how you want your corner of the universe to be.
Welcome Back, Rain.