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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