A Fine Day For Fish


Sodden. This morning, no adjective better describes the look and feel of our Willamette Valley landscape. What you can see of it—a gauzy veil covers the hills, what one of the weather services now calls light rain mist. In any fashion it’s WET, and I retired to bed early last evening hoping sleep would stop the dull drumming on our roof, but whenever my consciousness returned for a second or two…there it was. When I slipped back to sleep I could only imagine the damage being done to our steep gravel driveway. Would the narrow ditch hold the flood?

I’d mulched the leaves covering our yard on Tuesday, raking those I couldn’t reach with my lawnmower, and deposited a fine pile next to my wife’s garden shack, but there are always rogue leaves, oak mostly, that hang around to clog gutters and generally gum up the works. Walking down to the road to fetch today’s paper, I was pleased to see that my crude shovel work had held fast, and no leaves had created a spontaneous beaver’s dam.

None of this is meant as a complaint. The past summer’s wildfires reminded Oregonians, if they needed it, that we’re in a drought. Our collective fingers should be crossed that normal—as we remember it—will again mean deep snows in the Cascades and, yes, days upon days of rain here in the valley. 

“Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.” —Langston Hughes


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