It's rained most of the night, a hard, soaking rain. More leaves dance off the trees and tumble down to the ground. This morning the wind is from the east, the least common wind direction here on the mountain. The sight of leaves blowing past a cabin window from right to left, instead of from left to right, looks odd to me.
Inside, the cabin is snug and warm. The sound of rain falling on the roof is a pleasant one and makes it tough to get out of bed this morning. A warm bed is so much more enticing than the idea of walking two dogs in a cold, driving rain. Eventually, there is no choice, and I am up.
Dog loves the puddles he finds, splashing through the water that runs downs the lane, that collects in puddles at the foot of the hill. He is soon soaked and happy. Baby Dog doesn’t share that joy, avoiding as many puddles as she can. And yet the rain doesn’t make her want to go back inside. In fact, she is intent on the smells, thrusting her nose into one spot that apparently smells delicious and keeping it there for long seconds. I’m afraid she is about to roll in something terrible and eventually I pull her away.
I am soon wet. It is raining so hard that my raincoat and hat are soon overwhelmed and can no longer keep me dry. I am certain that when this rain is over, and the weather clears again, the forest will be changed, perhaps a little, perhaps a lot. More leaves will have fallen. The storm will likely move the season deeper towards winter. Perhaps more winter birds will arrive or the last of the summer ones will leave. Storms serve to hasten or at least concentrate the seasonal changes in the forest. Today, I am stuck in the unknown of the storm itself. Tomorrow, the forest will show me what the storm has brought.