In our corner of Mexico the weather is lovely in February and March. We have blue skies and sunshine with tee-shirt-wearing temperatures during the day and it's cool enough to rest well at night. Perfect. Having no rain for weeks means that watering the garden is a daily joy.
Last week the clouds, coming inland from the Gulf of Mexico, started to bunch up around the east side of the Gran Sierra. The view got hazy. I started to notice the humidity of the air I breathed during my morning walks.
Wednesday evening there was a fine mist in the breeze. It felt like rain, but we didn't even get a brief shower. In the morning Chuy told me he had dreamed of a beautiful rain that watered his father's recently planted corn and beans fields. All the farmers in the village must have shared his hopes for a good soaking rain. We waited under a solid cloud cover.
As Steve finished doing the dinner dishes that evening we heard the swish of the storm's approach. Then the first tapping on the sheet metal roof began. Soon the gutters collected a steady fine stream of water to drop into the rain barrel.
We got a glorious, slow rain timed so the soil could drink up every drop. Friday morning the hill sides were puffing and sighing with satisfaction. A maze of cloud shreds still draped the folds and twirled over the high ridge tops. The sun, peeking out for the first time in several days, spotlighted the newly unfurled lime colored leaves on the white oaks putting them in sharp contrast with the tender ruddy-brown of the red oaks' new growth on the slopes above the village. All of them were bursting with new life. Perfect.
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