G’Day Mob,
There’s nothing quite like the
prediction of rain after an extended dry spell to get farmers hopping. Fencing,
put off for weeks, is hurriedly done – because it’s going to rain. Firewood
boxes are topped up and washing done – because it’s going to rain. Water tanks
are emptied and cleaned and the residents are relocated -
because it’s going to rain. And
then, when the jobs are done and the skies are still blue, a restless
anticipation sets in.
The
waiting starts.
Monthly
internet allowances are exceeded as farmers load and re-load the radar page.
The
Bureau of Meteorology is cursed because it may not rain – and it is so
desperately needed.
And
then it starts. Gently at first and, as though still not believing, the farmer
checks the rain gauge at hourly intervals. Jealously sets in when the mob over
the hill has had three inches to our one. But the rain continues, soaking into
the dry ground and running in tiny rivulets across paddocks, and the land opens
its soul to receive it.
A
dusty lens is washed from the farmers’ eyes and the world looks sharper, the
future rosier. Even mulga looks brighter. Earthy smells rise (and so do not so pleasant
smells around the dog kennels). The air is easier to breathe. Rain on a tin
roof chases worries away and in the words of Dorothea Mackellar “the filmy veil
of greenness thickens as we gaze.”
And
in a paddock on our property a new life is gifted.
Maybe
only they who live with a rain gauge ever truly understand the blessing of
rain.
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