A snow of scatterseed settles in a  fleecy blanket,
A late frost is anticipated.
The thunder rolls and rumbles.
Growling and cracking as it gets closer.
The swallows pile off en masse
Will whittles his pipe.
Gareth and Ben thin the vegetable seedlings
Sheep bleet and baa.
The air quivers in anticipation 
But still the dandelion seeds float by unperturbed.
3.30 is a godly hour
I feel like Mary Magdalen, risen every day at a certain hour
to hear the angels
Directly in front of me a jackdaw bows the tip of a fir tree
as it perches, in its front row seat of the storm.
I join it in my garden chair.
Surround sound thunder breaks over us and the air freshens.
I have to leave my chair and lay with my back to the earth
listening to nature breaking its own barriers,
completely subsumed by the gathering bank of cloud.
The jackdaw caws.
My whole being cries out in yearning. Where is the rain?
Nothing
The willow catkins are flowering above me
Ben spies froghopper’s cuckoo spit.
Then, after that almost too long moment of expectation,
The rain arrives.
Big fat juicy drops exploding on the dry earth.
I move inside to listen,
stroking the smooth wood Will has been whittling as it passes me
Ben practices piano 
I lie back again.
Releasing all my weight down into the earth.
This is heaven