A crack of thunder jolts me awake. Pre-dawn light is seeping into the house. I lie in bed listening to the rain beating on the roof. A flash of lightning illuminates the room harshly, brash in the soft morning light. The thunder follows closely, rattling the windows. The dog sneaks into the bedroom, ever so quietly. She’s not really allowed. Her bed is down in the laundry and mostly she stays there. But thunder. ‘It’s okay Maisie,’ I say. Her tail thumps against the floor where she is lying at the foot of the bed. Gentle snores soon follow. (Hers, not mine.) I lie in the warmth of my bed and listen to the day waking to this strong late-spring storm.
A flock of corellas screech to each other as they fly over. I think of them, their white wings beating through the falling rain. Most of the sounds are of the storm. The rain falling. The thunder rumbling and cracking. I doze, aware of the storm but untouched by it; the comfortable luxury of being housed.
I think of the birds down at the lake, with rain strafing the water. I’m not tempted to join them this morning. The ducks will be out – good weather for ducks, as they say. The lake has more water in it than is normal for this time of year. Usually, it would be shrinking by now, the wet areas diminishing and the muddy edges creeping wider. But this winter, rainfall records have fallen. This storm will top up the lake water levels once again. It’s good for the ducks, not so good for migratory waders that usually abound at this time of year. I have seen one black winged stilt down there so far this spring. No sandpipers. No spoonbills. No avocets. No dotterels. They all need the shallows and mudflats. With water levels at the lake so high, this habitat is not available. The water comes up to the shrub line. The reeds are all still underwater. Where are the waders? What’s it like to fly thousands of miles to come to your summer feeding grounds and find them not available? Do they circle above the lake and realise it is too full, then fly somewhere else? Or does some inbuilt instinct about the weather forewarn them? I don’t know.
By the time I get up and am drinking my first cup of tea for the day, the rain is slowing, leaving the sodden ground in its wake. A plane flies overhead. Galahs screech. A red wattle bird squawks. A willy wagtail calls in panic about something – chitty, chitty, chitty. Rainbow lorikeets chatter. They are becoming more and more prolific. They’re very pretty but here they are feral, bred from escaped cage birds. They’re aggressive and have taken over breeding trees and food sources from the indigenous parrots. I haven’t seen twenty-eights or rosellas around here for ages. It seems they are gone, pushed out by the new arrivals.
I go outside and pick mulberries from amongst wet leaves to have with my breakfast.
The storm has gone now, heading east, inland towards the wheatbelt farms. They don’t want rain out there now. It’s too late in the season. It’s harvest time. They need the crops to be dry and crisp. Rain will delay harvest further and may affect the quality of the wheat. They should be having a bumper crop. So many variables and vagaries affect that final result.
But the rain will also top up the levels of the water supplies in dams and reservoirs as we head into summer. There has been enough of it this year that the groundwater levels will most likely also be recharged. In the city we tend to think of rain as something that affects social plans, gardens and road safety, but our connections to it run deeper than we often realise. Here in this city perched between desert and sea, we need rain.
Later, I go for a walk with the dog. The world is washed fresh. The dog charged with energy. She splashes through puddles and chases after the magpies that are pulling worms from the soft ground. Galahs eye us as we pass. We walk down a path and the ground is soft from the rain, the bush still dripping, the clouds hanging grey above us. The fairy wrens and singing honeyeaters are busily eating now that the rain has stopped, at least for the moment. The air smells clean and I breathe it deeply. I relish these last storms of the season, knowing that ahead are months of dry, burning heat.
Thanks for reading,
Jill
Strafing - such a wonderful word and a perfect description of yesterday's downpour! I usually spot spoonbills when I'm out kayaking on Wilson Inlet. It will be interesting to see if they are in the usual places this year.
I enjoy learning new things in your pieces, Jill. I’ve always assumed that lower water levels in lakes meant less wildlife, and had not really thought about where the birds and animals who thrive in more muddy, reedy environments end up when the lakes are unusually full.
I’ve enjoyed the late rains this year, but must admit I’m looking forward to summer.