The stillness of approaching weather sat about little farm yesterday. The clouds had slowly lowered about our heads like a tin lid, amplifying all the darkening sounds and tricking the crickets into early song. The birds gathered in heavy trees and went quiet. The big animals ate as fast as they could. Filling their bellies in case of a protracted pause.
It was calm. Eeerie almost. Though pleasant. We felt small and alone in the fields, the animals and I. But safe. Our day was good.
When the rain finally began we heard it approaching from far away through the corn.
Everyone’s heads go up, smelling the shower, imagining we might have heard something, shelter is noted. We sense the hundreds of miles of crops this band of rain has trailed its fingers across until reaching us. Snippets of stories it has seen. All middles with no endings. Wild eyes with no words. As it blows its cloudy urgent body through the countryside. Just on the other side of the field now, pushing through the leaves towards us. The approaching sound of the petals of raindrops hitting the drying leaves of the corn has a pittering sound, like a million boots tiptoeing on gravel, toe to heel, toe to heel. A barely heard rustle now that grows in volume, rushing towards us, announcing its sound, building its volume, pushing the wind ahead like a train in a hot tunnel, ruffling our hair and tails as a warning. Before finally the raindrops burst out of the wall wall of corn, and into our fields zig zagging across to find us and rain generously upon our heads.
It only rained for a short time but the rain in the corn is a different sound from rain on the green grass. Or rain on a tin roof. Or rain tapping the top of your hat. Or rain hitting the drying wash on the clothesline. Rain in drying corn has a playful timbre, it is a collection of slipping notes. As the shower moves across, then above and then beyond us the sounds change like a passing car, dropping a note, changing down a gear, trailing a descant of drips and piddles as we hear it entering the next field and rushing away. And though our feet are wet, we shake our hands and ears dry. Heads go back down in the fields. Mouths reach for washed clover. Tails switch. I pick up my thistle spade again and come out from under the colander eaves of the barn. Birds peer skywards through the leaves testing the air and the tin lid rises and floats off after the gamboling shower. A benevolent uncle of a cloud lumbering behind his charges.
Good morning. I hope you all have a lovely day. We might even get another shower, the sky is red in its dawn.
Your friend on the farm, celi