Just a season...

In the drought we long for mist; in the cool months, long-past summers fuel our dreams.

We live in a world in-between: forgetting to delight in the now. Forgetting to be present to the beauty that exists today.

This day.

Every day.

It's so hot and dry: the hills baked to the colour of ginger-crunch, the lake a desert oasis, the strange mist of a few mornings-ago a cool blessing.

The mist rose early, so deep that the world disappeared in its moist white embrace.

It pressed its damp cheeks to the house, repelling the sun that would disperse it.
We were all alone, marooned on an island of cloud.

Gone was the lavender outside the bathroom window; gone the burned grass bank behind it. Gone the rabbits, the pukekos, the hunting cat. The lake and ponds gone - erased from the canvas while we slept.

The mist pressed a cool compress to the baked earth. It smothered the sighs of the wilting olive trees, it caressed the dried arrangements that once bore fruit. It whispered to the land that one day the drought would end.

The quiet, shrouded earth rested, recovered a little.

The bell-bird who sips each morning from the flax flowers stayed in its nest. The tui in the gum, no more, no more.

No magpies gargled. No frogs creaked. No plants tap-tapped against the side of the house.

The morepork slept, his head pillowed on his chest, dreaming of the hunt just finished.

The clock ticked, time shuffled its weary feet, light imperceptibly slipped through the muffling mist.

The lavender - usually bee-buzzed by now - ghosted silently, empty against the window.
The trees tiptoed back into place, trailing cottony shrouds behind them.

Soft glints of sky peeled off the lake, the parched world was reviving.

The birds ran quiet sound checks before one by one rediscovering their voice, and they hailed the bright, hard sky as it returned.

Drought, broken for a brief time, is so much easier to bear. A promise glimpsed eases our pain, allowing us to appreciate anew the beauty here and now.

It's just a season: its time is limited.

The world will return to rights.

Relax, wait, enjoy.

This time too, will pass.

Drought

It has been raining at Stillwaters for two days now.

Two days of soft, cool rain tipped from the cup of life to replenish the land. Trees have lifted their shoulders again, and look less defeated than they have for weeks. Flowers raise their dusty faces to the sky.

It's been a hot, dry, windy Spring, and there is drought in Hawke's Bay. We are lucky to have minimal stock - three pet goats are all we run here, and they are hand fed and watered.

The birds seem to be enjoying the rain with the most exuberance. Pukekos are splashing in puddles, up to their bony red knees in places, while thrushes stand with their heads to one side on the sodden lawn listening for worms. Two tuis fed on the flax flowers on our deck last night - their throaty song on leaving sounded like thanks.

The earth is replenished, the crops waking and sighing with joy, and the soil darkening to black with the long hoped-for rain. Tonight I will splash and dance with the birds, as my soul too is quenched.

Let it rain...

Spring...

Yesterday the equinoxial winds were barrelling down the hills towards the lake which lay yet unruffled at the foot of Stillwaters. The cabbage trees and weeping willows stood firm, and mother ducks shepherded their babies into the leafy shelters to wait out the weather. The ducklings are young enough to take themselves lightly - any alarm sends them racing across the surface of the water like triathletes eager for the best swim start. One group of nine ducklings in their yellow and brown racing suits shimmied through the red water fern barely getting their feathers wet as their mother followed them under the leafy veil of a willow. Safe again...

The wind dipped lower, the leaves of the cabbage trees clacked together, still dry from winter's drought. The willows danced in their new green finery, they had been bare sticks a month ago.

A solitary dab chick swam like an Egyptian, its head nodding forward and back as it winched itself across the ruffled water.

Californian quail motored down the path beside the lake. Their quaint brown dress-coats barely moving as their wind-up feet flew across the newly mown track. I disturbed a nesting golden pheasant who flew from beneath my feet with a plaintive rusty-duck alarm call.

Phil the goat (full name Felicia-jolly-good-go-at) pulled at her chain and dragged her hut a centimetre closer to me as I sat on the grass. Phil is losing her winter coat and looks straggly and unloved. I pulled some of her old coat out, and it flew like candy floss on the freshening wind towards the lake. Perhaps it will appear woven into a soft warm nest next season.

The early evening light illuminated the still waters that give our place its name, as the lake become darker and more alive, churning and chasing the bird life from the centre of the water towards nests and shelter.

Coffee called, and I rose to return to my home through the trees. A triple line of blackwoods form a cathedral trail back along the foot of the lake. An old birdnest cartwheeled across the floor - pefectly constructed and sadly empty. The swallows in the trees squeaked their protest at my intrusion, and a pair of nesting magpies gargled nastily.

The golden night light picked out the contours of the surrounding hills, and lit the tops of grasses being thrashed by the wind. Each grass tipped by a tiny fairy light that winked in the waning light. The wind began to drop, the pukekos screamed from their nests in the greening raupo.

My coffee steamed and I sat warming my hands and watching through the lounge window as darkness and quiet fell again. Home and safe.

Spring...