Gentle Rain

It has been dry here on the farm. No snow to really speak of yet. Some rain in January, not much if any in February. Dry. Wind. Drier still. But last night I saw the Thunder Beings gathering to the North. They were not supposed to be there, but they came anyway. They don’t really listen to  weather men. They like to surprise them instead. I watched them and prayed that they would come and dance. Anything—a sprinkle, a kiss of drops, a mist—just something to quench the thirst of Mother Earth and the plants popping out of the ground early. Something.

I could smell it the last time I went out into the dark night before going to bed. I could smell a hint of that moisture touching something. I had hope. Hope is what keeps us going in the dry spells. Hope that the Thunders will come down and kiss the Earth. That everything will be alright.

I slept well. A deep sleep filled with good dreams and woke feeling refreshed. And then the proof was there. Sometime in the night, my prayers were answered and a very gentle rain fell. Not a lot, a kiss. A trace, but enough to leave small puddles on a sheet of plastic. Enough to quench the Earth for another day. Not muddy, but the soil clumped just a bit under my Wellies as I did chores. A puddle in a feeder outside, damp grass. Relief. For just a moment, sweet relief from the Thunder Beings Kissing Mother Earth. Hope.

 

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