The true value of this rainfall has no measure in inches

By Ma. Eugenia Guerra

On a morning that the heavens have opened to pour water across the ranchlands, I feel exhilarated as the moisture occupies every bit of my attention. The din of the downpour on the metal roof. Sand turning into slick mud. The volume of water from the roof -- sometimes spilling from the right angle of the gutter that feeds into the 1,500 gallon tank nearby -- falling instead into the rain barrel at the end of the porch, filling it in short order.

Every creature, every plant on this ranch has by varying degrees experienced this grim, dry time, the critters on the ground and in the air most directly. Aside from seeing the pastures in such dire conditions, I have been most affected by the taunting banks of massive clouds that for weeks built daily to the east only to dissipate and break their showy, tentative promise at nightfall.

It had been dry for so long that the sight of shriveled nopales and a khaki-colored landscape routinely filled me with a bit of despair, as have the dry summer winds that have felt like furnace blasts. Drives around the ranch have produced visions of skinny cattle, toasted grass, steel gates and padlocks hot to the touch, and deep drifts of sand.

But today is a gift, the air thick, moist, and cool, and the sky a dark, layered cover of many shades of gray. I've gone to the rain gauge several times this morning, the rain on my face a rejuvenating elixir. I stagger back to the porch, quite nearly intoxicated by the news that we've had an inch and a half of rain.

How lovely to sit on the porch, to listen to the rhythm of sheets of rain pelting the roof, and to understand that everything on this landscape and its inhabitants will soon be repaired.

For all that will transpire in the hearts of those who love the rancheria, the value of this rainfall has no measure in inches.