Il pleut!

We're in the middle of a veritable freshet, a sub-tropical deluge of gusting wind and torrential rain and balmy heat. The palm fronds and banana leaves are swaying mightily as the rain continues to come down in horizontally blowing sheets. Occasionally, a bombastic crack of thunder causes, without exaggeration, the air in the lungs to tighten and the walls of the house to rumble.

The gushing of the rainwater drowns out even the erratic and emphatic protests of the wind chimes. The ubiquitous lizards have all sought asylum under the lee of the lush foliage. The citrus trees, snugly nestled between house and fence, are almost visibly smiling as they sway and drink in the nectar of God's nourishing, lavish renewal, offering their gleaming and garish fruits as a kind of thank offering to the Lord.

An afternoon such as this must have prompted New Orleans resident Tennessee Williams to write:

"Don't you just love those long rainy afternoons in New Orleans when an hour isn't just an hour - but a little piece of eternity dropped into your hands - and who knows what to do with it?" (from A Streetcar Named Desire, 1947).