The night passed in restless, shattered sleep, thunder crashing, booming, rain drumming, drenching, branches
breaking, one small dog panting in my ear, the other whining beneath
the covers. Lightning flashes illuminated the backyard, a familiar
landscape made eerie by jagged white light. I drifted in and out of
dreams, warm, secure, fully understanding the meaning of snug.
Morning dawned dark, showers still
falling, subsiding long enough for a raincoat-clad walk down to the
river, swollen, but already receded from a nighttime high marked by
mashed, flattened grass. Waterfalls, thick and white, tumbled down
mountains, disappeared behind floating curtains of white cloud.
The bees, undeterred by the uncertainty
of the weather, were already venturing out. I touched the landing
board to assess its wetness, felt the heat of aliveness emitted by
the hive. A beam of sunlight pierced the sullen sky and the birds
belted out a joyous greeting, expressing their gladness, and mine,
for the incomparable nourishment of rain.
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