Drops of Rain

9 July

There was rain today.
A brief, quick patter on the tin roof, of such duration as to compete with the longer of shooting stars. At the first clatter, an easy dismissal. Must be dust and wind. Shouldn't be rain until October or thereabouts. The skies threaten—or promise, depending how you look at it—but nothing happens. Rain starts in spring. Spring starts at the end of September. A grim acceptance settles—unlike the dust, which hangs thick.
Dust splashes where you step, and little baby cyclones pick up paper thorns, chips of grass, withered flaky leaves, and powdery sand, dancing dervishly across the yard and depositing its giddy finds right at your doorstep. Sweep to your heart's content. The job will never be done. Desiccated twig tips of the trees out back claw at the siding and rattle on the tin roof, trying sanity and parrying patience away like a wilted daisy.
But this...
It can't be...
I hold my hand out under the porch eaves. It's wet. In the sky.
I open my mouth, hold out my tongue. It's sweet. Clean. Exciting.
But I shiver, and the wind blows cold at the back of my neck. Of course it wouldn't rain on one of the hot days.
And then it's gone, and even its little footsteps disappear in the thirst of seasonal drought.
But the sand looks solid. The air smells fresh. Everything swells just a little, nature heaving a wistful sigh. A few birds sing their amazement to each other. Leaves whisper of coming attractions. This spot of moisture has merely whet their thirst. Drops in the sand become little dry donuts. What green remains stands out from the dust.
A friend phones.
Hey, howzit?
It's raining!
I know it!
News is news. This is a bizarre event. It's not supposed to rain today. Not for another few months. And then it won't stop. It will flood, replenishing and destroying at once. Survived the dry? Learn to swim.
Nature is tough here.