This morning I woke up to rolling thunder calling to tasks. The house was dark, not with night sleeping darkness, but with grey dark tea demanding silence. Making my way through the living room, I could hear the first timid uncertain drops of rain falling on the yard and hurried to pick up  the paper on the lawn.

By the time I was stepping out with my black umbrella, it was a decided torrent hitting hard, festive, aromatic with the perfume of the grateful earth answering its life giving passionate kiss with exuberance.

It was existentially repositioning to sit on the back door steps then to watch a veritable wall of water almost hiding the yard and the wooden fence that turns a dark brown in complicity with the rain. A mug of Earl Grey tea is a completely different experience then, the bergamot answering enthusiastically to the loud humid call of the early morning deluge.

Thru the grey haze of the attempting early morning light defussing tight mass of water, the kitchen light on the house beyond my backyard, beyond the wooden fence, beyond his backyard, turns on, yellow in the haze. They have two little children, little lady Jane and baby Will. I barely see the dad’s shadow pass in one direction. You can guess the aroma of warm milk for little Will or Jane has suggested Sunday pancakes in bed for her dotting mom.

I sit on the backyard door steps and watch the perennial life renewing cycle resolve before me, with the life that yesterday was maybe a puddle next street over or a scent of a lake farther south returning this enchanting morning over my garden to sink into my soil and start all over again. The begonias are so grateful they can practically dance, the nasturtiums are frankly overwhelmed. I mean, you just got to smile. And the spirit is ensconced in the almost maternal breast of this small and soaked all defining space.

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