A prophesied, ten-hour rain gathered in the night, stuttered a few times, false started, but now she goes, headlong and driving, and the earth, the proverbially good earth, doth receive her.
Two days ago when I was driving to Epping, in a space of about fifteen seconds I saw a farmer step out from his truck, walk purposefully a few steps into his field, drop to his knees, and immediately begin digging in the soil with his hands. When he leaned forward to get a better look, however, he lost his balance and fell directly onto his right forearm and elbow, which, in turn, prompted his left foot to lift and hang momentarily in the air behind him.
That’s all I saw, and that’s how I left the man: compromised on one knee and elbow.
The farmer, by the way, was looking for moisture, for sign of germination. For he is a man whose life is determined by moisture and germination. They are the stuff of his blood, his DNA, his dreams.
When I woke last night to the rain, gladdened, the man in the field was already there in my mind. And so I was doubly gladdened: once for the rain and once for the knowledge of the man’s satisfaction, too.