AFTER THE RAIN

A typical spring thunderstorm just passed through. 

First the sky darkened. Then a few droplets pattered on the leaves. From the west came a loud, deep-bass rumble. It started to sprinkle. Suddenly the air was rent by an explosive flash and crash of lightening and thunder. As if shook loose from the dark clouds, the rain began to pour—beating into a roar through the canopy leaves. It was almost impossible to see across the river. 

The dogs (we're again dogsitting Will and Gwyn while my daughter and son-in-law are in Florida) whom I'd just let out—too late—for a quick before-the-storm reconnoiter, dashed frantically about before making a beeline for the door, giving me a dirty you-planned-that! look as they passed on the deck. 

For a handful of minutes the storm—as if undecided about what to do next—vacillated beween downpours and sprinkles. There were several additional cannonades of thunder, a few more lightening fireworks…and then, like a throttled faucet, the rain simply ceased as the storm apparently made up its mind and moved on.

I grabbed a camera and made a quick photographic circumnavigation around the cottage. These are my five favorite images. Double-click to view any a bit larger.

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LUSH

We had a good rain last night, courtesy of a thunderstorm that came muttering in from the southwest. The sound of its distant drumrolls woke me from a deep sleep—a low, resounding rumble that, as it approached, might have been mistaken for the wheels of a horse-drawn wagon clattering over a wooden bridge. After a while the storm drew near and the smell of coming rain, fresh and damp, came wafting through the open screen and quickly cooled the room. The dog, who’s not afraid of even the most tumultuous storm, stirred on her bed, savoring the sudden profusion of scent carried in on the thickening night air. The rain itself began with a few drops on the roof, an erratic pinging, spasmodic, asymmetrical, too misshapened to be called rhythm. But a minute later I heard a dull onrushing as the wall of pouring rain advanced through the woods opposite the cottage, changed pitch as it crossed the open channel, then roared exuberantly as it drenched our side of the river. I don’t mind rain—especially not in the spring when all the earth needs a life-boosting drink. Rain in spring is vernal refreshment. Of course I do mind when it rains day after day, or comes discharging such a protracted downpour that streams flood their banks and I have to stand on the muddy edge of my swollen river in the middle of the night, worried like a parent with a feverish child, and pray for the rising water to crest before climbing another inch. Last night’s rain, however, proved as well behaved as anyone could want—giving freely of itself for half and hour, then packing up and moving elsewhere when the ground was sufficiently saturated. By dawn’s sunny light the whole world sparkled under a sheen or moisture. Everything looked green and lush, swollen with pleasure and quickening with energy. I could almost hear the grass starting to grow. And that is the perfect one-word description for today…lush. A succulent green land, tender, heavy with leaf, dense and thick, yet soft, verdant, almost tropical. The sun remained out and bright; temperatures climbed into the mid-80s. For the first time this year the air felt sultry. I’ve spent much of the time working around the yard, fiddling with plants, moving more wood to the woodpile, trying to figure where to plant what, should I have the funds to expand my landscaping anytime soon—not to mention the necessary energy. Before going inside I stepped onto the front deck overlooking the water. The river was up an inch or two and showing some color. A half-dozen mallards came winging downstream, flying fast, gabbling to one another as they hurried along. One of the local herons, perhaps inspired by the early-morning freshet, was intently fishing the shallows on the island side of the channel. The mass of wild grapevine I allow to trail over the rail was green and lovely in the backlight of the now-lowering sun. Everything was lush today. And I feel lush, myself.

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[Faithful readers…you’ll notice some changes today in the “Riverdaze…” layout. A bit of tweaking in colors and background; a new header, including a different great blue heron header shot. (Same series as the old heron, taken just a few minutes earlier, in the riffle near the cottage…just a different, less “busy” pose.) I’m not big on change, except for a reason—and the reason here is that I was trying to make it cleaner in design, and most importantly, easier to read. I hope I’ve succeeded…but that’s where I need your help and input. Tell me what you think. Like? Don’t like? Doesn’t matter one way or the other? Let me know.]

SPRING RAIN

Rain like the rustling of fine garments— Luminous, whispering rain; Voice of the Spring, sibilant and frail. Rain like the fluttering of wings— The glad sigh of Nature awakened. — Chant of the Spring Rain, Ray Clarke Rose Yesterday was a dreary, drizzly day along the river—though that’s not a complaint. We needed the rain. The wildflowers waiting beneath the leaves and duff need the moisture. The frogs and salamanders and earthworms were thirsty for a good wetting. Even the groundhog needed the grass watered so it would be induced to grow tall and tender, thus providing him with ample good eats. There’s no question we’ve gone far too long in this season of growth and resurrection without the many benefits of a good spring rain. The earth hereabouts is decidedly dehydrated. I noticed just how dry last week when I poked and raked around various planting beds while giving the yard its initial seasonal cleaning. More than once I actually stirred up dust! And when I dug several inches below the surface, the soil at that depth showed little evidence of moisture. Perhaps worse is the river, which is so low it’s almost shocking. As a guess, I’d say it’s already down to something nearing late-summer levels. Gravel bars are dry, revealed to air and sun. The mussels can’t have survived. Large stones normally underwater are exposed half-way and more, their tops sticking above the surface like the backs of beached turtles. How can you have spring without the gift of sufficient rain? Why, the notion is simply preposterous! They are the co-joined twins of season and weather—inseparable here in Ohio. Spring is green and greening requires rain. So when the rain did finally arrive, I welcomed it by donning a light jacket from time to time throughout the day, and taking several quick rambles around the house and yard and along my hundred or so yards of riverbank. There were plenty of birds to keep me company—titmice and chickadees, goldfinches, house finches, red-bellied and downy woodpeckers, various sparrows flitting through the trees and bushes. Looking a bit bedraggled, it’s true—but not seeming to care in the least. Robins warbled from the hackberry branches. Cardinals whistled in the evergreen hedges. And a song sparrow which I believe is casing the brushpile behind the stack of firewood as a nest site, sang with unbridled joy. Such glorious birdsong is capable of lighting up even the darkest day. Along the river, the mallard ducks and Canada geese seemed perfectly happy—though why would a little rain rankle any waterfowl? Too, the kingfisher noisily working the pool downstream didn’t appear to mind the flat, dim light, though it must have made the task of locating a target minnow more difficult. Even the squirrels took the weather in stride and spent hours chasing one another as they gamboled through the treetops—though their normally fluffy tails did become soggy and trailing, rather unsightly, which had the detrimental effect of making them look more like scurrying tree rats. Still, what does self-image mean to a squirrel? Nope…a good rain is a good thing in the spring. Though that sunbathing turkey vulture from yesterday’s post probably wouldn’t agree…