RAIN
The Sandman’s tears drop from the heavens, playing notes on different surfaces. The heavy plop, plop of large drops splatter, then the liquid crystal spills with a roar, cleaning the earth and all upon it. Suddenly it gentles to a tap,tap,tap on windows and roofs with a sleepy rhythem.
I sit trying to concentrate on my work, though, I find I jerk to attention at any sharp noise not associated with the rhythem of the rain. I am being hypnotized to sleep.
Rain, something we do not consciously think of unless we have too much, or too little. A drought comes. All the wells and streams dry up. The animals are thirsty. We are thirsty. Crops dry up and die. Earth dries and cracks. We find ourselves living in a bare and desolate land with wind driven clouds of earth blown here and yon. Our eyes hurt as the minute grains hit and stick. Our throats are dry and dusty, and our teeth grind on the grit.
What is going on? We do not live in the desert. Leaves die and fall from trees in the spring, and summer. Tall old trees die and fall away. The sun burns down on everything.
People begin to fear. In the country and towns you hear; “We sure need rain. What are we going to do if it doesn’t rain soon?"
“It will rain,it always does.” someone answers, but is that doubt heard in their voice?
Then comes the day the clouds gather in the sky, turning smoky black, and white. They roll and tumble while streaks of lighting crackles and snaps. Thunder booms. Rain is coming.
The black clouds unzip, dropping their load in a deluge. The earth is so dry, we wonder if it will wash away. But we are glad and thankful for a deluge, or a promising sprinkle. Our creeks, ponds, rivers and wells will fill. Grass will grow. Cattle and horses dance in the rain, cleaning the dust from their hides. Life comes back to everything, just in time. We will not die.
The cloud zipper is stuck open. Rain continues to fall, and fall. Soon everything is overfilled. Creeks and rivers overflow their banks. Pastures are knee deep to the cows in water. Roofs spring leaks, where there were never leaks before. Everything is drowning. The word in the country and the towns; “When will it stop? It’s washing away my place. I can’t plant my garden. It’s too wet.”
Liquid feast, or dry, hard as rock, earth famine. It seems never to be just right.
But today, as the sandman’s tears fall on the roof, it is neither extreme. A soft beat, followed by a heavy one, weights on my eyelids like sinkers on a fishing line. Gravity pulls downward until my eyes shut and my body goes in to silken repose, with my head cradled on my folded arms.
Lightning may flash, and thunder may boom, but I sleep on in the mesmerizing coziness of a wet cocoon
