Winter falling yet at times the mood switches.

Winter is becoming more predominant with its full sorrow sky, and it is be darkened chill of its atmosphere. Clouds appear vulgar with gallons of water stored inside anticipating release, which would allow miniature balloons of soaked moisture to escape its jaws. Every millisecond it pours down as if from the biblical deluge, flooding rivers, submerging the fields and overflowing the dams. It appears as a cataclysm faced similar with Noah’s-Ark, an incessant surge of water descending from the sky. Trees torn from the damp earthy soil, cars go swerving careful not to crash. The steady pitter-patter of raindrops falling yet at times the mood switches. It snaps and crackles as if bracken pods in a bushfire pop pop crack! Suddenly waves fill the sky to become open, but it seems as if there is no-one to close them back up.The spring sky is a delicate, crystalline-blue. The clouds are frail and angel-white. They everlast shouldered on a light, between a ruffling breeze. The loam of Mother Earth is as steel, firm and in need of nurture. Murky rain falls below, as fragile as a Scottish smirr and its hint of hidden dew feel like melting butter running down a face. As it descends, it unhitches the glassy fingers of winter’s cold fist, one by one. Flowers gradually unfold in the meadows and ripple similar to coral arms at low tide. The rivers sigh with a murmurous purr of prosperity. The spring rains are here, pure and glistening as an angel’s tears. The summer sky is neon-blue and pulsing its radiance below onto nature. Soon the sun-crisped flowers of the meadow begin to fade. They look at the tufty clouds and plead for their parched petals to be given one more sip of insulin.The clouds become compelled. Rain gradually descends into small shimmers of silver droplets. If thou were to stand in the meadow, the drops would feel as if carbonated champagne bubbles caressed the surface of your entire body. The tone of the rain echoes symphonious thrumming, nature’s white noise which can be heard as a mixture of high to low frequencies. Silver trickles of water flow within the soil, restoring the life-roots of the plants underneath. A pleasant yet familiar smell of baked-earth arises from the land as it is rinsed and cleansed by the dewy tears of summer rain. Petrichor, the smell of the first rains after a dry spell, rises like a miasma. It leaves an aroma of jasmine and gingerbread, warm and fresh, and also leaves the land with a smell of sweetness like eating a slice of chocolate cake with its rich filling and airy exterior.The rainfall has giveth what the sun would taketh away.The autumn sky is deep and rancorous. Rushing shrouds of cloud twist and writhe. Then an eerie caterwauling sound fills the air. The wind thrashes and lashes up into a typhoon. It is a shrieking, keening omen of the destruction to follow. The clouds race over the sky, thrumming with the charged power they are desperate to release. It starts with roaring, dewy drops of moisture. They are free and indiscriminate, round missiles of mass destruction that splatter onto the soft soil. The topsoil turns into slushy goo. The harvest has been taken in. It is clear to hear the rain is sissing and hissing off the roof, overflowing straight onto the spongy earth below. The farmer becomes thankful for the gift that the rain has brought for his crops but still knows that most gifts come with a cost. He quakes at the thought of another winter but counts his blessings that the rain has once again guaranteed his livelihood.Rain to farmers refers to the nectar of the gods and the serum of the sky. He is neither a philosopher or ancient navigator, yet he understands and is thankful of the importance of nature’s bounty.If beauty is God’s signature, then rain is his final flourish.