It’s almost rainy season here in the Sierra Madres.
Each afternoon, billowing clouds climb over the mountain tops and crowd the sky.
Each afternoon, we wait, wondering. Will those magnificent clouds spill their long-awaited treasure onto the dryness of the land.
The hills are dust brown. The beach, bone dry. The Lake, the edge of which is just behind me as I took this shot, is the second lowest since 1900. (The lowest was in 1950.)
It feels kind of epic. The desire for water. The mountain of cloud in the sky. Epic proportions of naught. Epic proportions of potential.
There are celebrations here that lead to the start of the rainy season. Fire crackers galore. Snap. Crackle, and, Bang. Set off to remember Saint Anthony of Padua, and set off, perhaps, like prayers. Fire calling in rain. It has worked every other year. This year, the calendar says the rainy season will begin on June 13th, the actual day to celebrate Saint Anthony.
Until then, we wait. Sitting in that place called, promise. Where it gets quiet. And, still. And, the rain bird cries. And, the fire cracker pops, and the thunder cracks, and maybe, maybe, there’s a whisper of it: the first splash of rain on leaves, the sweet song of rain drops on water. A hint of what’s to come, as we wait for the rains.
Posting over at Vision and Verb today. Press the link and head on over to our Shoppe. Have a look at the gorgeous cards for sale in support of KIVA, an organization helping people in developing countries create their own small businesses.