I lay on the porch in the early hours, breathing in fresh, cool, rain-sweetened air. Birds started their lilting, mixed songs in the pre-dawn darkness, a gift of summer – does anyone but me hear those very first notes at 4 AM?
Here in the short-summer north, these brief months become a rush to accomplish a lot before cold and snow.
But this year, we’ve had weekly cooling and refreshing rains. Sometimes gully-washers, with hail for many. Hail bigger than golf balls and more destructive, or tiny pelting peas that quickly melt. Rolling thunder, blinding strikes of lightning.
I laid here on the porch Sunday, watching the biggest storm yet, waves of a downpour that blotted out the hills, the trees, blown in sheets even onto my safe haven. And the smell! Even those without the highly refined sniffing abilities of a cowdog must love the clear, crisp scent!
We rush to get things done before the storm, but then the storm slows us down. I lay on the porch, reflecting on all things Heeler – summer, work, weather, smells, the blessing and the trouble – watered trees, no drought, no fire. Or maybe lightning strikes, hail-flattened fields, floods.
This week, kids, cows and cowdogs will storm town, as the county fair brings everyone together to celebrate a productive summer.
Not me; this little old cowdog stays home. I’ll lay on the porch or in the deep shade if the sun is hot, content with the peace of no noise.
I’ll listen to the rushing creek and the birds singing – that’s enough.
Next week we will mow the fields and bale hay to feed some critters come winter.
It looks like three days of rain, then the sun will come out, we will hit the trail and get back to the hurry-up chores of summer. We’ll weed, rake, dig, build, wash, paint, weed some more, prune, plant, gather. And wonder how there can still be so many weeds! We will sand, paint, repair.
Move dirt. Move hay. Build fences.
And I’ll supervise {often from the shade}, rule from the four-wheeler, jump in the creek for regular cool-downs.
I’ll keep an eye on little boys and manage that guy driving the swather and baler; I’ll follow the tractor.
I’ll take the morning watch, breathing in all the new night scents and early songs.
I’ll take a siesta here at high noon – maybe shade and a breeze from a blistering sun, or maybe protection from rain.
In the evening, I’ll watch the light sink behind the foothills, the deer and turkeys in the meadows, crows flying home.
Then I’ll lay on the porch, breathe in the perfect, brief, heavenly air. And never forget this summer.
So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
Matthew 6:34
