On a small insignificant leaf beside a fence so old it had transformed to stone, a drop of rain and then another, bounced, it’s viscous beauty not lost on the various birdlife, hungering with thirst.
A rusting bucket with many crevices and holes and golden copper lining the lip, collects the silver drips. One after another, they arrive. Why do the drips lose their sweet form as they meld into a sea of other drops, all blending in. Is this what they meant when they said ..‘and the two shall become one’?
Splat, on the red dust mat. A puddle forms, dusted on top, looking like black ink or molten chocolate. Tempted, I draw my walking stick through the tiny pool, peeling a layer of earth away to reveal more red velvet, like parting the Red Sea. I am a giant.
The sound, slowly gets louder, until the deafening noise of water soaks the land, all surfaces changing in an instant response. Shining, new, wet. All of nature quieting itself in the blanket of rain, that comforting sound of white noise, reassuring. One can sense the growing anticipation that precedes the arrival of the sun or the onset of rain, the air and the creatures are pregnant with longing.
In the landscape, hints of abundance nestle and ooze. Life that lay dormant, is reawakened. Previously invisible, new forms reveal their presence. Miracles are everywhere, and above, where I first saw the leaf so insignificant, is the tiny swollen bud that will become a proud pear.
Blossoms bloom and petals fall. As seasons come, they go. Summer winters, Autumn springs, sunshine permits rainfall.
And whether wet or whether dry, I know not what’s in store. Cannot predict a single thing, outside my peeling door. I hope for pears, I pray for rain, I tread familiar paths. I wear a rainbow on my heart and watch the strangers pass.
My favourite kind of stranger is the doe-eyed flying fox, when dryness of the drought ensured his other foods were lost. Some nights I meandered down, the tumbleweeded steps, to orchards past and present, where I heard his little voice. Tempted by the fruit, not ripe yet he was drawn. His sweet face gave my heart an ache, I wished dawn not to come.