The lake’s spillway often has but a leisurely flow of water falling over its concrete body, a minor trickle in the scheme of things that offers nothing more extravagant than a measly creek making its way southward.  Or so it is when one does not account for the usual Texas thunderstorms that can easily flood the area, storms quite like those which came through the night of March 30.

As I walked around the area the following morning, I found the normally meandering rivulet had become something else entirely.  Once still and quiet walkways had become deep meres.  Minor outlets had become raging rapids.  Dry cement dappled with the tiniest of brooks had become a dangerous playground for angry white water.

The transformation could only be called miraculous had it not occurred where such dramatic environmental changes are commonplace.

[I will try to remember to survey these same locations when finally the rains end and our weather returns to something less torrential; I suspect that will not be until this summer—assuming we have a normal summer; when finally the lake and surrounding area reminds me of normalcy, I will do my best to capture some images for comparison; BTW, this is the same weekend I referred to as preceding a weekend full of snow and freezing temperatures; yes, we had major spring thunderstorms one weekend only to be followed by snow and ice the next weekend; ah, but this is Texas, and weird weather is what we do; remember, the weekend after Old Man Winter returned marked the first of five weeks in a row in which we had tornadoes and violent thunderstorms]

Rain falls even now after a few hours of reprieve, just as the entire day encompassed one shower after another, some heavy, some light, all steady.

The world changes after rain.  Have you noticed?

As though cleansed, refreshed, renewed, it stands gloriously in awe of nature’s ability to bring life to what previously had been assaulted by unending heat and humidity.  It is as though the universe itself rejoices in dance following a downpour.

And I join in that waltz.

My fingers ache to touch all that partakes of this rejuvenating essence.  My heart cries out to bathe in the magnificent vitality found in the smallest of things and in the greatness of the whole.

If you look at the largest version of that last photo, you’ll see a world within a world, a tiny space holding infinite possibilities, all contained within the drop of water clinging to the end of the leaf.  Grains of dirt and sand can be seen hiding under what must be a deluge to them, yet is something no more important than a trinket to my own flesh.  Just as I said about icicles, I say again about drops of water: “There exists a world dangling from the end of each leaf, from the bend in each branch… worlds cast in cold. . .  They are worlds we can never know truly without destroying them.  They are impenetrable to all of our senses save one: sight.  Only with our eyes can we visit those places, for they remain otherwise forever removed from our existence.”

To know them directly would be to destroy them, so I shall know them in the only way I can: visually.