We had just reached the eastern ledge of the cemetery when the sky went dark. I unshouldered my pack to retrieve my t-shirt and Whistler's leash for the last leg of our trek home through town. The cloud cover gave us a pleasant respite from the building heat of the day as we had been out on walkabout.
Something wet touched my arm, but I dismissed it was sweat. The dark clouds sure looked ominous, but I was cynical. It had been so hot and dry that even when the dark clouds appeared, any moisture carried therein evaporated long before it touched the ground. Even this high up.
Then there was the roar. Wardrums echoed through the valley, causing Whistler to start. Another peal of thunder and more sensations of wet. The sky opened up.
We walked home in a downpour, the rain soaking clothing, fur, and packs. The thirsty earth, all but drying even as it got wet, opened wide to drink heartily. A sound like that of bacon frying upon a skillet.
The clouds broke as we turned the last corner of the last stretch to home. Sunlight once more bathed the mountainsides. The rain moved on, thunder echoing further down the valley. Once more, the ground and roadways dried out as though the downpour was nothing more than a phantasm. The drink the world had been given equating to about a sip.
I let Whistler off the leash as we approached the House of Owls and Bats. A rainbow arched overhead in an almost cathedral-like fashion and warmth returned, but the rainsoak made it feel quite pleasant. I couldn't help but smile, reaching down to scritch behind Whistler's ears.
"Remember," I said, "These are the best of times."