Last night we finally had proper, heavy rain. Not for long, but enough to raise the spirits of the vegetation that wasn’t already dead. It’s warm now, gentle, and the tension has dropped.
We walked out in it, the first shower, and watched the toads climb out of the ditches, and the carpet of snails sprung from nowhere. There are even tiny toadlets, though I have no idea how they survived the trek up the baking desert of the meadow. Nature is resilient. I hope, resilient enough.
There was rain and the smell of earth-sigh,
the patter or water and a trickle
running along the dry stream bed.
There were snails and toads
and owl choruses, and our feet
tripped along the lane beneath a pale moon,
as we listened to the wind from the ocean,
running its fingers through the hair of the trees,
whispering, Here is rain.