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Wrensong and Rainfall

“Matamoros is getting it,” Trudy said.

Like her mother, she loves watching weather radar. She held out her phone. A bright red band was smeared across the map. It came in from the Gulf and passed inland right over the spot where the map showed Matamoros to be.

“Corpus is getting it.”

There was another red band up there.

Still, we haven’t held out much hope for one of the arms of the storm passing by here. There was a tiny shower yesterday for 30 seconds or so, but nothing of consequence. Just enough to cool things down and maybe add half an inch to the rain barrels.

“50% chance of showers this morning,” they say on the radio, but we know better than to put much hope in that. And then…

“It’s raining,” said Trudy.

“It is? It is!”

You could hear it on the roof. You could see it when you gazed across the field behind the back fence. A Whitewinged Dove fluttered down from the branches of the Ash tree to sit on the birdbath, obviously in anticipation of rising water levels.

Outside the front door, a Wren hopped from branch to branch in the Texas Redbud tree. It shook with each flit until, perched on the topmost twig, its disheveled head silhouetted by the gray western sky, it sang out loudly. 

A few moments later, the sun came out, and the rainfall stopped.