Not Merely Being Wet

It is cold. Cold and gray, a sweater kind of weather. Hot tea and cocoa and curling up on the couch with a throw wrapped tightly around me, tucked under my chin. The rain has fallen almost constantly since last night, steady and rhythmic and almost painful on the cheeks and tips of the ears. But there are puddles––big ones, and wide, too––and the grass is green again and even though socks get wet and pant cuffs stay damp, it is fun to walk through, sluicing around heels and toes, tap tap tapping with each step.

There is discovery in a cold, late-summer rain, a kind of startling realization that all good things must pass, that the heat that has gripped us almost painfully, cutting off our breath and nearly bruising the skin, is not long for this top side of the world. The day has been dark and tonight will come sooner than I'd like. I am not done playing with The Dipper or watching the bats amass in the air above The Glen. I am not ready for Orion's long, slow prowl across the southern sky. There is still much I want to do.

But discovery, even the unexpected kind, can be pleasant if you find the eye that wants to see it. Duncan and I tromped through the puddles in the park, blessedly empty except for the high school kids running cross country circuits down the slope and across the fields. A small stream appeared at the base of The Mound where none had been the day before, running downward, pulling the long blades of grass with it, like hair caught, but not captured in a drain. We pondered the sudden change in the leaves, now beginning to burn with cold rather than bleach in the sun. We discovered the faces leering out at us from the Snapdragons, with watchful eyes and pronounced noses. We were not content merely being wet, but sought joy in our watchfulness and openness in the strange and sudden change that has descended upon the Front Range. This is not how I like things, in this bittersweet end-of summer time, but I am ready for what is to come next.