I didn’t know how much I miss the long, lingering rains. Steady rains, without the wild winds. At the shore, storms roar through, full of the raging power of the sea. In our Vermont mountains they linger, as though they love it here as much as I do.
I can smell the rain coming; when it’s here it creates a symphony of scents, of forest bottoms and wet, green grasses. There is nothing like the sound of the rain in the forest: each tree singing its own song, some of ancient tales, others youthful and exuberant. I listen and revel, then close the windows when their voices flood my senses.
It is late summer. Autumn is lurking in the woods. The leaves are just starting their russet glow, tempering the riot of summer greens. The birdsongs have changed key, now singing of a leavetaking, a journey ahead.
It’s magical watching the mist rise on a morning like this. It has spent the night sleeping in the valley, wrapped in the warm arms of the forest. The sun, as it rises, calls the mist back home to the sky. A small cloud scurries up our hillside, having overslept, it rushes to meet its mates.
By evening, the mist’s heart is heavy with longing for the forest. It falls back to earth to sleep once again in the valley. I sit, a passing bystander, watching the eternal dance between the mountains and the mist: an intimate dance played on a grand stage.