And Then The Rain Came
It came hurtling down, pounding the roof with a purpose, as if determined to erase the long drought in one afternoon. The birds took refuge in the generous magnolia tree, grateful for its leafy harbor, peering out through the fat emerald leaves at the torrent with curiosity, knowing that this was not a rain for splashing about in puddles. This was a rain for hiding away, watching from a safe distance. This was a serious, straight down rain, with worried skies and somber stillness. Even the thunder knew to hold his tongue, the lightning to still her fire. This was the rain’s performance, he ruled the day. On and on it came, as if from the depths of some unfathomable, vast lake high up behind the clouds, a cosmic lake whose dam had burst with its unending supply seemingly set to fall unhindered and relentless on our little garden alone, turning the stone pathways into rivers and bending the fir trees into submission to its drowned and infinite power. We listened, Edward and I, from our cozy spots with our good books and dry feet, cloistered within our softly lit sanctuary, as it poured on into the night, past tea time, past suppertime, past bedtime. We snuggled down a little deeper and were beholden, once again, to the stalwart bricks and mortar, the steadfast stone and wood standing strong and brave around us against the turbulent niagara outside our door. We said a prayer for those not so fortunate as we, and we slept.
Painting above:
"Rain, August in the Lake District 1898"
by Beatrix Potter
It came hurtling down, pounding the roof with a purpose, as if determined to erase the long drought in one afternoon. The birds took refuge in the generous magnolia tree, grateful for its leafy harbor, peering out through the fat emerald leaves at the torrent with curiosity, knowing that this was not a rain for splashing about in puddles. This was a rain for hiding away, watching from a safe distance. This was a serious, straight down rain, with worried skies and somber stillness. Even the thunder knew to hold his tongue, the lightning to still her fire. This was the rain’s performance, he ruled the day. On and on it came, as if from the depths of some unfathomable, vast lake high up behind the clouds, a cosmic lake whose dam had burst with its unending supply seemingly set to fall unhindered and relentless on our little garden alone, turning the stone pathways into rivers and bending the fir trees into submission to its drowned and infinite power. We listened, Edward and I, from our cozy spots with our good books and dry feet, cloistered within our softly lit sanctuary, as it poured on into the night, past tea time, past suppertime, past bedtime. We snuggled down a little deeper and were beholden, once again, to the stalwart bricks and mortar, the steadfast stone and wood standing strong and brave around us against the turbulent niagara outside our door. We said a prayer for those not so fortunate as we, and we slept.
Painting above:
"Rain, August in the Lake District 1898"
by Beatrix Potter
