The Promised Rain
A bit late, but close enough. Thunder storms were forecast for 5:00PM, and It is 6:15P. The thunder storms are on their way, or teasing. As I look above my computer, the trees are dancing, the pines doing the twist, the oaks doing the ‘sway. as the front approaches.
My window view is North. I have seen that dance before, only to be disappointed when the promised rain takes a sudden turn to the east or west and leaves my fields thirsty, but this time the promise looks sincere. The approaching front is strong enough to shake the pine straw loose from their boughs, and produce little showers of pink crepe myrtle blooms to fall on ‘John’s plant’ beneath them - -
Now, all is calm again. And even as I type, the trees take up their dance again and promise the rain is coming. White dog hears the thunder, and sniffs the back door, looking for more secure shelter than ‘under the cabin’. A sure sign rain is on the way? I have seen the rain dance too many times to believe in ‘sure signs’. Rain, promised, granted or withheld is a fickle bitch
In twenty minutes, the little storm moved through and left no rain. I still hear distant thunder, as it taunts growers of hay west of me.
Living life. Managing to deal with fickle fate and unkept promises. Enjoying fulfilled promises, and accepting unfulfilled promises. Life. Life is sweet.
This is so great Rick, you have a gift for description and painting the scene. It felt as if I was the one looking out the window over those trees and fields in anticipation.
Storms are one of my favorite parts about this world, and I could feel your hope and ultimate resignment to your stormless fate.