I haven’t talked about weather, but if you lived in the Midwest over the summer, you don’t need me to. It’s been weird and wet and rainy and unseasonably cold with brief snaps of unsustainable heat. My garden is in a sad slump, my tomatoes are still green.
But one wonderful thing that the rain has caused are unknown waterfalls.
The joke in Missouri is that ten days without rain means we’re in a drought. Having grown up in the wonderful wet Pacific Northwest, I had a hard time wrapping my head around that one.
But now I know.
This landscape is too rocky and lean to accept the demands of hard rain. It’ll flood after three inches falls. It did. Our bridge has already washed out, which doesn’t usually happen until November. Water has run in torrents through my garden, destroying crops, pushing aside the straw I’ve so neatly laid down between rows. It comes pummeling out of the hilltops. It makes its own ways.
Like this waterfall, which had never existed before, and Jon found ripping through the woods above our bermuda field.
Three days later, it had completely disappeared.