Streams leap prettily downhill, babbling in their rush to revive dry gullies.

Well-fed mapgies warble rainy-day songs. The garden is sprouting toadstools.

I check the rain gauge. Over 30mm has fallen since…?

I make a mental note: Keep rainfall records… along with planting records and the one for crop rotation. The road to hell is paved with unkept records.

For the time being, we’ve mothballed the buckets for greywater. With no use for it now, we’ve nowhere to store it but as it swirls away down the drain, the feeling of waste is hard to shake.

We ponder the torrent coursing downhill where the pines once grew. Should we divert it, arrest it or leave it to find its own level? Later we’ll track it to find its path.

With our muddy boots squelching, we revel in the pleasures of rain.