Posted by: holly | May 27, 2010

Rain Symphony

We went into the swamp today, and the rain dripped off every surface. It beat drums on our coats, it penetrated our wool hats and dripped down our noses and necks. It pounded on the wooden boardwalk; it hissed on a million leaves; it splashed and dripped into the water, a sound as wet as a thousand salamanders clapping their hands.

This night wrapped me up, a gift to myself. I was bathed in rainwater and wonder. I felt lucky to be witness to all this imperfect, sloppy, beauty. Lucky that my own imperfections have not kept me from this, at least. Have not kept me from the infinite sounds of water tonight; from the pendulous lichen nest and the tiny bird nestled within; from the sudden slap of the beavers tail; from the mysterious sounds of munching and crunching and a hundred animal lives moving in the darkness; from the dark mink racing down the puddled trail, a limp vole dangling from his teeth; from the muskrat silently swimming; from the blazes of yellow pond lilies, flag irises, goldfinches, and yellow-throat warblers on this most gray of days. If I spend another day racing to clean and yell and dress and chase and eat and feed and, and, and… at least I will have this night. At least my many frenzies, my many false steps, my constant cravings for more and better, have not kept me from knowing this one wet and brilliant world.

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