The first rain of the season fell upon the mountain and me, the only two legged for miles and miles in this land now spilling with life. Wild life. A celebration of life with the soft sweet soothing melody of rain. Is there any sound so beautiful as the waves from the sky sweeping across the grateful land? How I long for the rain after the season of bright and white and harsh and cold. To hear the tapping on the metal roofs, the smell of the musky soil so purely refreshed from the falling water, the languid movement of the heavy clouds, rolling and wrapping themselves down the sides of the mountain, subtle and subdued visions and views. The mountain blends together in shades of green and grey.
No one but the rain to tell me not to, and she lets me be me. Lets me run wild and free. And so I do. I run around the ranch spreading seeds and manure, picking up objects buried for months beneath the oppressive white, I’m getting the most of this rain, I enjoy it to the fullest, find plenty to do to keep me out in it. There’s no time to cook to talk, to dress in a proper way. And no one here to care, to judge, to notice.
I could sing and shout like the coyote and throw back my head to let the soft wet spray cover my face as the trickle from my hat pours off behind me. I could run like the deer and be free and splash in the little pools forming in the pasture without fear of unapproving eyes, tisk-tisk voices searching, digging so deep to find fault.
There is no fault in this rain. Only cleansing. Pure and simple. Untamed and liberated.
Running wild in the rain. Away from the fears the failures the family ties, tangled behind us like the string of a kite. Or the rope that binds the falcon to the ground.
Ah, but to run in the rain. Because for no other reason than we can. Our legs carrying us like wings. Up and away, yet never more grounded. Kick up our heels in the pure exhilaration that explodes with the warm wet wild rain. The mountain lets lose and bursts free. Here alone for first rain of the year.