They Play in the Rain

We mind mud. It oozes up around our feet, threatening to swallow them whole as we fumble and swear across a sodden yard. It cakes on our shoes, dries in the treads, spatters up on our pants with any sudden movement. It’s sticky and dirty and miserable, mud.

We loathe puddles. They pool on the roads, a perfect place for your car to lose traction and go sliding for a few feet as our hearts stop beating and feet hover over the brakes. They form in unlikely places, deceptively deep, and attack our shoes with cold and wet, soaking our socks in an instant. We jump over them, totter around them, tiptoe bravely through them. 

We don’t want to go out. The wind is howling, rain beating on our windows. Venturing outside takes preparation and careful thought. We don our slickers and galoshes; bear our umbrellas like soldiers going to war. Those of us with curly hair put on hats and wait for the humidity to drop. We grumpily walk our dogs, hope our children don’t get too stir crazy, find good books and wait for it all to pass.

Looking out at the animals, they don’t seem to notice much or mind. Only the chickens take cover, dashing out as the downpour slows to a drizzle, catching an unlucky earth worm for their bravery. Pigs still go out and play in the rain, taking particular joy from rolling in the mud. Cows graze contentedly on the hills, tails swishing lazily as always, heavy rain soaking through their coats. For them, it’s simply another day, and a fine one at that. 

Today, we don’t mind the mud. We welcome a soggy sock or two, a slower commute, the extra clothes to keep us dry. The howling wind makes a spooky sound- a rather fun one at that. We hunker down happily with our blankets and warm drinks, listening to the storm serenade us with long needed rain.

-Office Girl Who is Grateful for the Rain