I
love rain. The thirsty ground is soaking up every drop of life-giving water. My
little green tree frog is confused; she has not left the deck. She took refuge
from the deluge under the white railing, glued to the underside. I can barely
spot her when I shine the flashlight.
My
rose bushes are happy – the moisture makes them more fragrant and vivid in
color. The wet dirt smells intoxicatingly alive.
Intense
lighting casts ghostly shadows in the forest behind our house. Bogart must be
trembling in his basket – he is always frightened by loud noise, especially
thunder.
I
peer outside the front door to make sure Old Glory is still bathed in light. It
hangs wet and straight which rarely happens as the winds seldom die around our
house. We live in the crosshairs of the Aeolian winds. They howl in wintertime
with a painfully frigid bite and frightening pitch and soothingly hot in
summertime.
The
pond is almost overflowing. I hear gurgling sounds as the excess water is
rushing down the drain. The wet grass is soaked, making squishy noises under my
bare feet. A street light flickers and the power goes off for a second. We
seldom lose power since lines are buried everywhere.
I
circle the house to inspect the back yard. The French drain is working well. I
hear creaking in the forest as if the trees are moaning under the heavy weight
of wet leaves. Lightning casts a nanno-second of brilliance, illuminating the
ink darkness.
The
rain is making my cherry tree shed white petals slowly, dancing in the darkness
with crystalline raindrops like a flutter of white butterflies. I hope there
will be some flowers left on the tree tomorrow. Birds and insects get so
excited, chirping and buzzing around the pistils.
Back
inside, I check on Bogart, he is sound asleep, snoring and twitching. My feet
leave wet marks on the wooden floor.
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