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
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