This morning I awoke to the sound of gentle rain hitting the porch roof. The sky was pale gray and furry like a mouse. The rain was falling straight down with no wind to weave it around obstacles and through open windows. Ah, I thought, nature is catching up on her watering today. This will be a good chance for me to catch up on some of my indoor work, too.

I sat down at the desk and started paying bills. The sky got lighter and brighter and before long a fully beaming sun was calling me outside. Nature had finished one chore and had moved on to another. I decided to do the same and wandered into the yard.

I deadheaded daylilies and checked the size of the cucumbers in the garden. Those darn Japanese beetles were back at the beans; I made short work of them and then went inside to fix lunch.

The day continued sunny and grew increasingly warm and humid. I forgot about the bills and other paperwork and decided to transplant some daylilies. It was hard work in that heat, but the finished product of three curves of arching tapered leaves was well worth the effort.

But what was that sound way off in the distance? It sounded like thunder. The sky was robin-egg blue and clear, but that thunder was definitely rolling along somewhere.

As I put away my various tools, I looked to the north, where the large beaver impoundment always beckons me. The water is nearly covered with lilies now and the bullfrogs are often quiet. The tall, dead trees with their massive great blue heron nests stood stark against clouds the color of wet rocks. Yes, a summer storm was coming our way, and it wasn’t going to bring a soft, gentle rainfall.

I watched as the clouds swung over the tops of the nests and began to fill the sky, spilling from the north, across the arch of the sky and towards the south. The wind began to build, and the thunder grew louder. As I finished a few quick chores outside, the darkness swept in the approaching storm. I decided it was time to head inside and quickly.

Just moments later, the first patter of raindrops began to play on the porch roof. The soft drumming lasted briefly then turned into a full orchestra of sound as the rain pounded the metal roof. The wind pulled leaves from trees and flung them in dervish circles. The water cascaded down as if off a tall cliff. There was something wonderful about the wildness of the storm – something elemental and it called to me. Had it not been for the flashes of electricity in the air and the quickly following thunder, I know I would have been tempted to run outside to feel the strength of the deluge, the exuberance of the storm. Would it have felt like needles on skin or would I have been pounded until I staggered? Would I have joined the leaves in their crazy dance or been pushed down and held there by the strength of the wind and rain? What would it have felt like to be a part of that display?

The storm left as it came, the rain and wind slowing down, a music box nearly unwound. The clouds seemed to turn over, revealing their white puffy side, and blue sky began to peek through. The rain petered out, allowing the returning sun to glisten on every wet leaf and flower. The hummingbird reappeared and moved rapidly among the monarda. A squirrel began to scold from the tall pine. All was peaceful again. It was as if the storm had never hovered briefly over us.

The sunlight after a storm seems nearly miraculous. How could it still exist after what had just occurred? Surely the wind and rain, thunder and lightning, must have broken the sunny day like a piece of crockery smacked against the edge of the counter. How could it be whole again? Where could it have been hiding? How could it have returned so quickly? It seemed to be laughing, as if it had enjoyed the storm.

The wildness of the storm made the day feel more alive. It seemed to dance now, lifted from humidity-induced torpor, enjoying the cooler temperatures. The water drops and little pools sparkled and sang and every blade of grass stood up straighter. It was beautiful. The entire day had been beautiful.

The day had made me feel a part of the symphony of nature. I wasn’t just a listener at the concert but a part of the orchestra. I played the music of each movement. Oh, I hope another day like this one comes along very soon.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener