Soggy Sunday

Rain.
A big sweeping swath stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada. 
There’s no escape anywhere on the East Coast. And I dread it. 
Just when the last sogginess had seeped into the ground. Just as spring shoots are peeking out — teasing us with green — here comes another long, drenching rain. 
I wish I could tell the horses to tread lightly — go easy on those fragile grassroots under hoof. Better yet, hunker down in your run-in shed for a few days. But it’s a lost cause. The back field looks worn and wounded, more black than green where their feet have unearthed weary soil. 
I know the color will come back. It does every spring, but still I worry that winter’s damage will be too much. That there’s no going back. But then, like the snap of a window shade, the fields, the lawn, bushes and trees come alive again.
Last night, sleepless, I sat up watching TV and waiting for the rain. Around 2 am I peered out the front windows. Under a twinkling glow of red, yellow, and green, the decking was still dry. 
But when I cracked open the storm door, I smelled it coming.
Our Christmas lights are still up. A sad string sagging along the porch railing and a smattering of fat lights in the boxwoods. Martin hung them hurriedly before the holidays and the wind has tugged at them for months. Now they dangle in places, brushing the ground. Some sections have even flamed out. Still at night, there’s something cheerful about them. A beacon of color. 
We’ll put them away when the real color returns. Soon.