We do not generally employ a rain gauge here at Dry Creek. Suffice it to say, my wheelbarrow has now run over. During periods of extravagant rainfall, a number of tributaries form in the hills surrounding our little sanctuary, and join forces before enjoying a rambunctious rush down the middle of our meadow. Had I been so inclined this morning, I could have gotten out the canoe and gone for a rousing float across the half mile stretch of our hayfield, but it would have only lasted a moment.
Wet! Wetter! Wettest! My sympathies go out to all those who are suffering from too much rain. Here on Reservoir Hill, we are a bit waterlogged, but otherwise unscathed. The only casualties here have been this year’s hatchling fish. They line up at the gushing spillway, a site to which they are unaccustomed, evidently mistaking it for a water ride at a theme park, and sadly oblivious to the fact that their fun and frolic comes to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the hill, where their joyride is suddenly replaced by a buffet table quickly improvised by the ecstatic neighborhood crows. SC