Page 32 - Oasis in the Sky

Soul Rain

Sitting on the porch with Grandpa, skies are dark,
the world is still. He asks if I can smell the rain in the air.
I sniff the air; I do notice a difference.
Stray drops splatter here and there, prophesying more to come.
Grandpa is waiting for something, and I know what it is.
The silence goes on, then there’s a flash of lightning
and thunder booms and reverberates off the cliffs.
Grandpa smiles; this is what he was waiting for.
“Now it’s going to come down,” he says, like he always does.
And like it always does, the rain begins in earnest.

Sitting on the porch of the ranch bunkhouse,
I watch the thunder heads move across the valley below.
They’ll be here soon, bringing life on the ranch to a pleasant halt.
The valley’s green this year;
old timers at the coffee house are calling it a wet summer.
I’m grateful for the break in the steady life of the ranch.
I’m grateful for the green pastures and the running creeks.
I’m grateful for the soothing, life sustaining rain.

Sitting on the porch of my mountain eyrie in the winter of my life,
I watch spring rains on the horizon and their promise
that the seasonal lake on the plains will last through the summer.
The elk and whitetails will not have to compete
with the cattle herds on the open range;
the blessing of winter rains have turned sunburned
grasslands into verdant ocean waves.

How many rains have I watched in my lifetime?
Expectantly waiting for that smell of rain in the air,
and that smell of freshness afterward?
How many times did I sit with Grandpa, waiting for the
summer monsoons to water parched orchards
and terraced flower gardens?
How many times did I sit on the bunkhouse porch
watching the rain move in,
grateful for the break in my day and routine?

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Oasis in the Sky
Oasis in the Sky