It’s been pouring for an hour now and I sit here listening beneath my glass canopy; the drumskin of a rainwater percussionist. The sound, like a rock anthem or a classical overture, is awesome. Not just because it’s natural, not just because it’s rhythmic, but because it pulses like the push of blood through an arterial system. Without water, the natural world descends into parchedness and decline. Now, as the rivulets build and course through gulley and ditch, the earth will come alive. I can sense the relief of root and tendril as they seek and suck the moisture so long-awaited. The million raindrops that beat upon the arid ground break the surface tension to reveal the soil beneath. The buffeting wakes and fosters the rise of worm and grub. The birds will feed on protein again. They will bathe in the pools and wash away the dust. The thirsty roebuck will see his splendour reflected in the pool. The world around me is wet again but my glass has run dry. I pour another dram and salute the deluge. For tomorrow, the forest floor will be damp, luxurious and silent. There will be tracks and slots in the mud around the splashes. All is well in my world tonight. Because it rained.
Copyright Ian Barnett, Wildscribbler, September 2109
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