After The Rain

 When I stepped outside this morning, the earth had been freshly showered, patiently waiting for the warm sun to embrace it. And I was greeted by the beautiful sounds of a nearby northern mockingbird. I know this, of course, because I used my bird app. He was perched atop his birdhouse, proudly showing off all of the songs he knows, and he knows a lot. I was impressed. I could also hear the symphony of cicadas coming from the not-too-distant tree line: f, then p, forte, then piano, loud, then soft. I know THIS, of course, because I was raised by a family of musicians. 

With my wellies on, the dogs and I walked out into the wet grass, and everything looked more alive, more vibrant. The dogs seemed to share my thoughts, as they stuck their noses into the air, breathing in all of the heightened scents. As we walked toward the back field, the tall, whimsical-looking flowers that sometimes pop up in the summertime looked even more yellow, making everything look . . . happy. And the beads of raindrops atop the leaves of grass magnified the shades of green, making everything look like harmony.

And there were more than the usual number of butterflies fluttering about today. Big ones and small ones, yellow ones and blue ones, and the occasional ones dressed in orange. I watched as they flew so quickly, so sporadically, so . . . NOT efficiently. How ironic that their movements are so much fun to watch, yet it is their way of evading predators. I watched as the occasional sparrow unsuccessfully attempted to catch one.  

I returned to the back door with the dogs and their wet paws; my wellies covered in wet grass. And we have a routine on damp mornings like these. Normally, Charlie (the older and smarter one) will shake off the walk, but it takes a bit of coaxing for Max. This morning, however, neither dog seemed to care about shaking off their wet paws, and, like the earth relies upon the sun, perfectly happy to leave the work of drying them off to me.