Sitting beneath the farmer's porch, a stiff wind pushes droplets of precipetation under our overhang and spatters our faces with the fine, cool, mist of hard falling rain. The Shire is engulfed in a surround-sound of liquid white noise, interrupted by the booms and flashes of lightening that crescendo with the power of an air raid. Looking across the pasture, trees on the furthest edges of the wood line are obliterated by opaque sheets of rain. Trees sway as gusts of winds hassle their willowy limbs.
Out in the woods, beneath the humbled water-laden branches of pines and oaks and sweet gum trees, deer and creatures of the forest wait-out the downpour that has descended on us like a tempest. We await the recession of a moody weather front.