Monsoon

At first, as I sit under the canvas awning, the drops are single notes, a tap, then another tap, then the notes pling faster and closer together. The tempo picks up until the rain falls in a steady beat, accentuated by a timpani of thunder from the clouds above. The temperature has dropped to a pleasant seventy-five, perfect for sitting and listening. Doves begin cooing as soon as the rain returns to a light sprinkle. I see birds flitting about in the trees, but hear none of the raucous screeching heard before the rain.

It is Colorado’s monsoon season, that time of flash floods, hailed out crops, and pungent, newly swathed alfalfa – now needing to be raked and turned again in order to dry. The air smells fresh and clean. The sun peaks out. Fat rain drops reflect the light, sparkling like diamonds sprinkled across the grass. But not for long. A breeze picks up and slowly whisks the moisture away. One by one the droplets flicker out and are gone.

A summer afternoon. Perfect for reflection. The mosquitoes have hidden themselves somewhere so I can sit outside unmolested and won’t have to shower off the repellent when I go in. It doesn’t get any better than this – unless of course your view includes a lake and mountains. Can’t have everything.

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