Painters and photographers know that the best light often comes at the end of a day, like a stimulating conversation over a cup of tea or a glass of wine.
As I set out the other night for a much-needed walk up the road with my dog, I felt the hills summoning the rain rather intensely. They pulled out all the stops: make-up, fragrance, beguiling glances, and undo attention.
The light on the hills afar revealed the extent that they would go to attract the rain. Is that war paint? Sensual blush? Embarrassment at such a lack of modesty? Even the oaks circle around curiously, their canopies arching for a better look at such an obvious display of neediness.
On my way down the road, I turn my attention to its other side, away from the northern frenzy and to the west, where the mountain top communes with the cloud cover in a manly way. There, the oaks sink to their roots in adoration and quiet.
The rain moves in. The fence braces.
It’s going to be a gully-washer, those lucky hills.