It’s pouring right now. It came over quickly, the morning was humid but sunny and a little windy, then the sky darkened and took on an odd greenish tinge. The house has been quite dark since 2pm, we’ve finally decided to turn a light or two on so we can see.
I love when it rains here. We have a little back verandah covered by the roof so we can still sit outside. We went out earlier and we moved the chairs into the driest corner – but we still got a few drops!
I love the rain in the city. It cleans everything, makes everything fresh again. And while it’s happening, watching the people scurry between shelters, and the next day, photographs in the newspapers of street bins – intended for empty coffee cups and cigarette butts – overflowing with inside-out umbrellas.
We’re on tank water here. It’s exciting when it rains, it refills our supplies. The rain here is usually long and heavy enough to completely fill our tank, with overflow spilling out the pipe. There is a fat green frog that sits inside the pipe when it’s wet, his croak amplifies and penetrates our double-brick.
I am grateful for the rain. The clouds it falls from fill our little valley until we can’t see the other side, the line of trees just below our house against a completely white backdrop. We can flush the toilet and have a shower and not feel too guilty about the wastage. It waters our otherwise-drooping tomatoes, and our chives and rosemary and spring onions. It cleans and refreshes and soothes. The sound on our iron roof reminds me of being a child, staying with my dad in the bush; he always had an iron roof.
regular gratitude 