The rains are here and mornings dawn cold and grey. At night we are kept awake by the sound of it drumming on our tin roof; everything is damp, mould grows freely in cupboards and on clothes and I sit here typing this wrapped in a big sheepskin coat with, for once, slippers on my feet. Last night the flying ants came, they arrive in ones and twos, attracted by our lights, but then before you know it they have multiplied and the air is thick. They fly in complete panic for many minutes and then fall to the ground, lose their wings, look for a mate and then die. Just like that. In the mornings we sweep up their bodies and gossamer wings and wait for the next time they’ll take flight.
I love this time of year. I love how our forest is so green, I imagine everything growing underfoot and if I sat there long enough I would probably see it grow. I drove down off the farm yesterday, and the stream at the bottom was in full flood. I sat and contemplated it for a while, wondered if my study old station wagon would withstand the force of water, or get swept down on to the rocks instead. But no time for second thoughts, places to go and restless energy at my heels, so we forded the river and roared out the other side.
Most days though I don’t leave the farm preferring to sit perched up here on the hill, catching only the odd glimpse of our mountain and watching the weather as she moves past.