WAITING FOR MY TEA

Well rainy season is finally here. The weather map is covered in big umbrellas, black clouds and big fat raindrops, the lake is invisible: nothing but a vast silver abyss dropping off into forever at the mountain's edge below.

I knew rainy season had arrived when at dawn I was awakened not by sunrise tickling my eyelids with gold, but by rainfall hammering on the skylight demanding to be let in, hissing in the trees and drenching my uncovered firewood. It was so sunny and warm yesterday, as all brinks are.

The cock pheasant loved the big cascade, though, sounded like he was quivering with delight as he crowed his squeaky-hinged big barn door imitation over and over. The warbler sang too, but like the pearlescent liquid that's absent from the pheasant's rusty hinges.

As for me, I grumbled as I hurriedly slipped bare feet into cold boots, put on my raincoat over nothing, the way I always sleep, and went out into the downpour to join the big frog party. My bike was uncovered too, as were my potting supplies. Realizations in the rain...

It had all seemed so very dry when yesterday afternoon Kaya and I carried firewood in the wheelbarrow over and over, from the cutting place to a new stacking place I'd set up (Kaya loves organizing things, an excellent quality in a grandchild), until she got worn out ("You do the rest, Bob").

Then after we'd finished, for the rest of the afternoon I wheeled her around the mountainside neighborhood roads in the wheelbarrow and wore myself out.

So last night I slept like like the baby I can still be when asleep, right into the rain. Kaya's still sleeping; I'm waiting for my tea to brew. It's ready now.

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