Yesterday was a rainy day the likes of which I once heard referred to as a "frog drowner." It was the sort of rain that falls straight down in vision obscuring sheets for half an hour, then suddenly shuts off as though the sky is sucking in a breath, only to begin again. It was the sort of rain that, for good or ill, makes me wax poetic. It rained all day, in those heavy fits and starts, finally stopping for a longer breather around 7 p.m., flash flooding all over the place and washing the asphalt off of the culvert bridges on the back roads, leaving tank traps behind. But at least my cistern is full. I washed everything that wasn't nailed down yesterday and still had enough water in the cistern to float the long stick we use to check depth.
To pass the day while the rain fell, the boys and I had a coloring party on the kitchen floor. No, that does not mean we colored on the actual floor. What do you think I am, nuts? Okay, maybe I am, because I let Abraham dump out the baby-wipe-box-full of crayons, the tub of markers, the box of stickers, and the jar of glitter pens all over the floor and then spread them while Charlie made pictures of volcanoes and things. But at the first sign of an extended let up of the lightning and thunder, we headed out to do what I think any reasonable person does on an evening like that: play in puddles in our underwear. Who says rainy days have to give you the blues?
The fading light hours of yesterday were resplendent with droplet-adorned leaves, drifting fog, and a pink flame of sun setting in the haze.
The boys both started out fully clothed, but I soon concluded that they'd be warmer with less wet clothing on...
The kittens were somewhat less enamored of the puddles.
The finches were undaunted, however.
Neither, apparently, was this (I presume) Giant Swallowtail butterfly.
Mark Haley Huzzah!
Our lawn may be damp
And need sun to cheer it,
But one day of hard rain
Cannot dampen our spirit!
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