Its raining. And its glorious and beautiful, and the wind is Wizard of Oz, Kansas huge, and the thunder is reminiscent of huge drums with tight heads being pounded right above the house. The skies are dark and would be ominous, except that they are so welcome. I wish they’d stay for a long weekend of late mornings and closed shutters and lazy days with a good book.
I don’t care that I’ve now got more dirt in my ear than a dog on the beach. Or that my body is freckled with raindrops made obvious by the splotches they’ve left in the white heat-rash powder on my arms. The power has gone out, meaning all my work on the computer - the sole reason for my trip into town today - is probably lost, and the floor of the house is covered in a heavy layer of dust blown in the windows, and there will be huge puddle in market. But I don’t care, bring it on. The cool air and the smell of fresh rain and the sight of Jean Baptiste, our Malian guard in a bright yellow Paddington Bear-style rain coat are all worth it.
I’m sure at home, Ill never look at weather in the same way. How can I? This was literally less than 20 minutes of rain, the concrete patio is already starting to dry, and soon you’ll not have any clue it was ever here.
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