Gene Hill once wrote that rain may be the oldest sound to reach the porches of man's ear.
As I write this, a glass of tea sits at my elbow. My head and shirt are wet and it's raining outside. What the weatherman calls a local thunderstorm. It's a gentle rain, pattering on the concrete outside, cooling the afternoon and settling the dust.
I like rainstorms like this, whether I am in the woods or in town. The world seems to take a breath and get under cover while the rain rearranges the day. The lightning crashes and the rain falls in sheets only for a little while, then settles into a gentle dousing, wetting everything thoroughly. Were I a paleo-hunter-gatherer, I would adjust my schedule, looking for game in the sheltered areas that exist in every woods. I'd move slowly, letting the rain hide the sounds of my movement and stopping frequently, scanning the gloom under the conifers for my prey. On the morn, I'd track for half a day, knowing that all the tracks are as fresh as the rain.
As it is, I am a modern suburb dweller, so I stand under my carport and drink my tea, watching a honeybee take refuge under the bumper of the truck. I'm intrigued because I haven't seen any evidence of beekeeping here, yet standing on the concrete drying her wings, sits the undeniable evidence.
The wind is out of the west and the rain is moving slowly east. It'll be over soon.
2 comments:
A beautiful piece. I miss Gene Hill. Once in a while I'll take down his 'Fireside Book,' and remember what a true writer can do with simple words.
You have made the grade.
With praise of rain like this, you could be an Oregonian...
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