It has been raining for a week now. I wake up each morning and look out the window, fog hangs heavy in the valleys. Pikes Peak is once again shrouded with fluffy white clouds and rolling fog. The rhythmic chatter of the rain pinging on the metal roof has become the constant driving beat of the day. The green country side drinks and flourishes while the road turns to soft mushy, reddish brown clay. As I head to the barn, my boots, swish into four inches of mud, at times the mud builds up on the bottom of my cowboy boots forming a platform that refuses to release the bottom of my boot.
The lilac bushes bloom into groups of white, deep purple and soft lavender freshness. The tulips and daffodils have resigned for the year after a brave stand against deer, and spring snows. Other flowers replace them as the earth prepares for the summer to come. The pasture blooms with wildflowers, smoky blue sage, and wild grasses. The white fence pops like exclamation points after a sentence. The tangles of sleepy tree branches are awakening with small light green buds. The grass twinkles with the glitter of water drops. The ponderosa pines shutter with the soft wind, gently shaking clear droplets off of their needles.
The meadow lark whistles his hopeful tune. The dogs run outside but quickly return to the house with wet dripping fur. The horses stay close to the barn. Like a hesitant bloom, waiting for the sun to burn off the fog, dry the land, and warm the heart. The land and the animals bustle with anticipation. Waiting for the sun! Like a pregnant mother in her last trimester.