Beginning

For a brief moment yesterday the unremitting dry weather gave way to a sprinkle of wet. It had been promising all afternoon, the low dull throb of humidity, dark grey clouds, threatening but not quite. A sheep in badjohn clothing. It hung there, teasing, almost as though waiting for something else, and then, in an instant, big, fat drops were splatting suicidally against the earth, baked too hard by weeks of sun beating against it. The hope that it might last long enough to at least shake the dust of the plants evaporated as quickly as the droplets clinging to the hot metal of the car hood. It was over, almost before there was time to flick the switch on the windshield wipers.

This morning though, hope springs eternal, The grass in the backyard, worn down and baked into a brown crisp, with that little toying sprinkle, has moved from being at one with the dirt to standing up looking skyward, waiting expectantly for more rain. In spots the greyish brown giving way to yellow and in the more sheltered places, a livid, almost florescent green. Surely the dust kicked up as the dogs raced along the fence, she teasing, wanting to play. Him, male, stupid with longing for his playmate having been denied the pleasure due to a neighbour's barbecue complete with guests the night before. Having to be dragged away before his barking woke up the neighbourhood.

Two buildings over, a resident leans on the railing of her porch, soaking in the early morning stillness, punctuated of course by barking. The cool of early morning had yet to morph into the dread heat of day, a lovely accompaniment to the smell of vanilla flavoured coffee, brewed fresh in the pot turned on by sleepy hands. Two women chattering loudly, on their constitutional, kiskidees crying out in reply from the their perches in the trees lining the road. The traffic has yet to emerge, even the church is quiet now, crouched waiting for the crowd at mass in another few hours.

In a bed with blue, soft cotton sheets, a writer returns for another few moments, maybe to catch a few more winks, or to read, or stare at the grooves in the oat coloured ceiling. Clean now, cobwebs swept away in a burst of cleaning yesterday. The hound sighs, flops down, it is early yet, enough time to race around and bark at the people on the road later. It is Sunday morning.