Soft rain drums the porch roof, like fingers drumming the table top. A higher tone comes from the drops as they hit the rain gutters at the edge of the house...sounding somewhat like a low pitched triangle.
I lay my head back against the cushion of the wooden Adirondack chair that holds me, and I listen.
Beyond the surface sounds, I detect the pitter patter of the water as it kisses the thirsty leaves of the hollies which are planted near the porch railing.
In my minds eye, I see the circles on the surface of the far-off creek. At low tide it is little more than a gigantic puddle. The circles grow, expanding until one joins the other. The breeze picks up and the salt marshes give forth a fragrance all their own. I breathe it deeply in as the gentle movement of air brings it my way. I watch the Queen Anne's Lace sway in rhythm with the sway of the feathered beach grasses. The rustling of the reeds adds to the symphony of rain.
The air chills. The rain reaches a crescendo and the sky darkens to a deep gray. Like the pounding of horses hooves, thunder beats across the clouds. Distant lightening flashes, spotlighting for only a moment the raised arms of the trees in the rain dance.
I open my eyes and rise from the comfort of my deep, cushioned, chair. I notice that the rain continues, but that there is no salty smell of a muddy creek. Instead my nostrils identify what was here all along...parched, red dirt and a newly-mown grass. Far in the distance, the thunder rumbles again, as a pounding rain beats against my porch floor. Opening the door, I enter the shelter of the cool, dry house. I take one more look at the darkening day. As the water rushes swiftly over the stones in the drainage ditch, I close my door to the storm.