Summer is taking a brief break here in Humptulips County. After many days of high, unblemished sun and smothering heat, the rain has returned, bringing with it low, unseasonal temperatures and a low-hanging, darkened sky. The light is that of early fall: heavy, moist, rendered in acrylics and oils. It has painted the sky with overcast and filled every nook and cranny of the landscape. If the day were portrayed on an artist’s canvas, nothing of its underlying color would be seen as it would be covered with heavy coats of paint applied by spatula rather than brush.
The rain is sporadic, its various arrivals announced by the grumbling of the weather gods. The thunder is vague, distant, and ambient rather than threatening, as if someone is keying open a microphone to determine whether it is live, and vigorously clearing his throat to assure himself that it is.   These throat rattles favor no particular point on the compass centered on the farm; it’s as if the air has become an exceedingly grumpy living being expressing its displeasure in the manner of a hissing cat – an immense, incorporeal, hissing cat in which the farm has magically come to reside.
These rains aren’t scheduled to last very long; summer is merely resting.  I consider them celestial teasers: previews of what the fall has in store, shown on the largest of all possible silver screens; enticements for each of us to live long enough to experience the Gods’ newest, boldest, forthcoming blockbuster.
Given the quality of today’s production, the gods can grumble on just as long as they please.
