July 18th, 2005

At Last

From "The Wasteland" by T.S. Eliot:
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
The sense of relief has me senseless. It's finally here in all its awesome power.

The Turning of the Tide

This morning I began pruning the mesquite tree damaged by the weekend's hot, dry winds. It was a big job. I didn't finish. When we came home this evening raindrops were falling and the air was getting cooler by the minute. I reveled in the change as I finished my task. Then I watched the sky darken, clouds swirling over our heterodox tract home:

And then everything was illuminated:

It hasn't poured yet and might not for a while. But the air declares that our long-delayed meteorological salvation is finally upon us. And none to monsoon either. I feel like doing a dance of gratitude.