Waiting for a Winter Rain

Photo by Pete Davis. Used with permission.

Every winter in northern California, I wait expectantly for the rainy season to begin so I can watch thewestern hills turn green. First, the slopes behind Stanford begin to shift in color. By February, there are patches of emerald that make you think of Ireland.

By March, the wild flowers are in full bloom. As I bike around Stanford campus, I feast my eyes on a kaleidoscope of red Indian paintbrush, blue skullcaps, yellow buttercups, and orange poppies that have sprung up where the gardeners laid out seeds on the medians of Campus Drive or near the paths running through groves of oak and eucalyptus.

This winter has been one of the driest on record in Northern California, and we've had precious little rain. When I walk “the Dish,” the path that is open to the public on the hills behind Stanford, I still see the brown grasses that have been there since the summer. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face and can scarcely believe it's winter.

But now I truly long for rain, and not just because I fear a return to the cycle of drought and its effects on the wildlife in these same hills. I want the sound of raindrops on the roof, the shifting blues and greys of rain clouds, and the promise of verdant rebirth that rain brings to my home.

Langston Hughes puts my feelings into poetry when he writes:

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night—

And I love the rain.

Today the skies are cloudy, and tomorrow the forecast is for rain.
I'll be waiting.