The first basso profundo rumbles rolled in around midnight last night.  And, shortly after that eye-opening threat, down came the torrents of rain.  But that was just the beginning.  From a geographic area that was bemoaning the lack of rain in early- to mid-summer, with drought conditions threatening farmers' crops, we have gradually moved into a more familiar atmospheric place giving us days upon days of pop-up thunderstorms of varying intensities.

Throughout the night thunder punctuated the heavy downfalls ensuring that our late summer gardens were very well hydrated.  No need to concern ourselves with watering anything; the concern being, rather, rot and powdery mildew, a strangle of vines and rain-sodden blossoms totally immersed in an all-enveloping caul of water.

 

Still, there is something very comforting about waking up in the morning to the sound of rain.  Comforting oddly enough to hear thunder also in its continuous presence, presaging ongoing rain.  The comfort resides in the fact that we are warm and snugly dry in bed.  And we feel lazily complacent, have to deliberately rouse ourselves to emerge from that comfort.