We used to sing it as children whenever a thunder storm would come. When it rained we'd sing It's raining! It's pouring! The old man is snoring!
I'd quite forgotten both until the other afternoon when I was enjoying a cup of tea and a book on the verandah whilst the sky flashed and rumbled and the rain poured down.
And what beautiful, proper rain it was. The kind of rain that makes the gutters overflow; that seems to hit the ground so hard again it bounces back off and creates a little sort of mist. The kind of rain that makes the spring turn into a little water fall that overflows the dam and makes the crossing go over, temporarily cutting us off from the back half of the property. The crossing and the spring only stay up for a few hours, at the most overnight. By the next day the water is gurgling quite calmly under the crossing, rather than over it, and the spring has died back down to a lovely musical tinkling through the paddock.
I thrive on weather such as this.
It's the beginning of February and I can feel the seasons changing. We're heading out of mid-summer. As I type this evening it's raining outside. I've noticed a difference in the sunrise. It's got a softer golden glow to it, and the sun is just a little bit slower to get out of bed each morning.
February here is usually wet and soggy.
February normally sounds of the clothes dryer running, of mud squelching underneath gumboots. The chickens spend more time sheltering from the rain than out and about scratching. The mulch seems to disappear with remarkable speed from the garden. The cattle yards get that distinctive 'wet-season' smell to them. The dam turns a muddy brown.
And grass grows. And grows.
A few days in and February is promising to live up to our wet-season hopes and expectations.
What are you wanting February to deliver?
Happy second month of the year,