Late Night Rains

Just a rose after last night's rain, but what a rose it is.....  The bloom in our garden is beaded with rain, frilled and scalloped along its edges and looking a little tattered. It is no less perfect for all that.

In the wee hours of the morning, an earthshaking storm visited the village, and its deafening sound and light show seemed to be playing itself out right over the house - it resounded in our rafters, beat against the roof, rattled the windows and turned eavestroughs and downspouts into madly gurgling rivers, each with its own impetuous waterfall.

The sky was lit up at regular intervals, and under the street lamps, leaves and twigs, tennis balls, paper cups and discarded toys went sailing down the street, borne merrily along by torrents in the gutter and glad to be free of their moorings.

Always distressed by storms, Spencer took his favorite blanket into our closet and stayed there until a crepuscular sunrise painted the trees a few hours ago.  When we two went into the garden a short time afterward, there was our rose, a little the worse for wear but lovely for all that and anointing the day with perfect hues and old rose fragrance.

The trick is to go out to garden, woodland, field and hedgerow without preconceived notions or expectations.  Do that, and there is elemental grace everywhere - wonders in surprising shapes and colors and textures everywhere we look.