The rice farmers have flooded their fields with the water that flows freely and endlessly down from the mountains. More rain is on the way as the first typhoon of the year approaches. The swaths of dark green climbing all over those mountains are forests of pine. The lighter greens are patches and stretches of deciduous, freshly-dressed in new leaves. The blue beyond the water is a grove of grape vines. They grow them by the millions all along the valley reaching into the distance right of center. Yet in places the vines have been replaced by rows of solar panels.
In August the faint but distinct smell of grapes will permeate the air, floating over rice fields that will be thick with the coming harvest. Our own garden too will perhaps be lush with the tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, peas, eggplant, watermelon and pumpkin the kids planted with their mom this past weekend. But for now we wait, and fall asleep to the gutteral cries of a thousand frogs, dormant all the long cold winter, now reveling, like the rest of us, in this season of regeneration and expectation.
Enough now of the gibberish. The family's all asleep, time to knock back a cold one and hit the sack. Looks like sun tomorrow.
Nothing wrong with any of that.