 There is
something magical about the experience of walking in
the dark after a torrential rain, surrounded by nature, with the
sounds of wind and crickets, the smell of earth and grass and wet
foliage, the sight of trees covered with droplets of water shining in
the streetlight, the taste of wild berries,
the startling touch of cold water dripping from the trees. I'm not sure
if it's possible to convey the extraordinary feeling these sensations
evoke with the blunt and clumsy tools of human language.
Monday afternoon and evening it rained heavily where we live, a rain
we desperately needed. Our usual pre-dusk stroll with Chelsea
was deferred until the rain finally let up, well after dark. We live in
an exurban community with about thirty large lots, with half of each
lot restricted by conservation authority regulations (in contiguous
stretches) due to the
uniqueness of the ecosystem, and hence untouched and untouchable by
development of any kind. As a result we feel we 'share' the
neighbourhood with the abundant wildlife that we encounter daily.
 I'm a poor
photographer, I'm afraid, especially at night, and cannot capture
the evanescent mist, nor the dazzling rich green colour of the
trees in the lamplight, nor the stark contrast between the green
moonlit branches and the blackness of those in shade, nor the sublime
crystalline beauty of the reflection of water-droplets on leaves. You
will have to conjure
these up from your own imagination.
In the falling
dark, the first thing you notice is the dazzling chlorophyll-enriched
green, a colour you only see after a heavy rain. Then, near midnight,
by lamplight,
the foliage takes on a phosphorescent lime hue with the shimmer and
sparkle of
raindrops beaded on the leaves, and clinging to the needles of
evergreens.
In the streetlight and moonlight far above, the conifers become
horizontal streaks of contrasting black and emerald, heavily striated
by
the shadows of the branches above. Black, green and white are the only
colours, but there is a vast profusion of rich tones of each. The
silhouettes of trees, some thirty feet tall, wave in the gusts of the
post-storm wind, and in the branches you can see and hear the
occasional rustle of birds. There are puddles in the street and
driveways, reflecting the lamplight and the moon's haze, rippled by the
wind. The rain has brought out a family of white-tailed rabbits,
scurrying
from groundcover to groundcover, and bullfrogs, and in the gully a
single young deer. And quietly and gracefully overhead, the occasional
tiny bat swoops in search of insects.
There are only
three sounds: The wind gusting through the trees, the crickets, and
your footsteps. The rest is silence, so deep that the world beyond
seems to have dropped from existence.
 It's no wonder
that dogs love to walk in, and after, the rain. The wind and the rain
have drawn out a profusion of scents. Earth, pinecones, evergreen
needles, midsummer florals, acid fruits. The gusts of wind accentuate
the sheer variety of smells, dozens of them layered on top of each
other, crisp and musty, barely distinguishable by our feeble noses.
Chelsea is in sensory heaven.
Among the scents is the tart whisper of wild raspberries growing by the
ponds, and though you can't see them you can almost taste them. And you can
almost taste the earth, the bite of bark and cone and leaf and needle
that overwhelms the senses.
The wind swirls around you, bracing but not cold, and then when you
pass under trees or
brush against them you feel the icy touch of newfallen rain.
Now in the dark
your imagination springs to life. Beneath one large lamplit tree, its
leaves so thick that they provide almost full shelter even in heavy
rain, you envision a young couple sitting, crosslegged, facing each
other, talking in hushed tones, excited, the light from above diffused
by leaves and branches so that the young faces are streaked with
shadows. Their eyes seem almost to shine in the dark. They have two
books, open, dog-eared, beside them. You can hear
the second movement of Ravel's
Concerto in G, the first part, the sad, hesitant piano solo and
then the rhapsodic flute coming in, two voices in quiet but animated
conversation, like the conversation of the young couple. They have this
remarkable music playing on a portable stereo under the tree.
 This is where poetry and music come from. In
this enthralling darkness, this swirl of sensation and emotion, lies
the opening of possibility, the awakening of ideas and dreams and
promises that free us from the suffocating grind of our daily
existence, the homogeneity of our frightened and horrible culture, that
crushes the life out of us, dessicates our individuality, leaves only
dull automatons who do what we are told, do what we must, never again
daring to dream that we could be anything,
that we could and can do anything,
we could build a world, a life, a community as different from the
suffocating blandness and uniformity of most human existance as life is
different from death, and rain from dust.
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MADE IN CANADA
trust your
instincts 
