raindrops

The first drops hit my windshield on the way to the barn. Rain was coming. It felt like all of nature held her breath to see if this was the real thing. 

I saddled up while a few drops made it through the oak canopy above. 

Down the lane the drops were few and far between. Was this rain fading already?

But raindrops continued to dot the dust as we walked through open spaces in the forest. 

Trees breathed a sigh of relief as months of dust were washed from their leaves. Even Major (also known as he-who-melts-in-the-rain) didn't seem to mind the drops splashing his face, dotting his neck, sparkling in his mane. 

The air already smelled less of smoke and dust, and instead of that damp cry for greenness found only in a forest desperate for moisture. 

The drizzle continued, and we crossed the road smelling of warm, wet asphalt. 

The raindrops were enough to finally stop causing tiny puffs in the dust, and instead to wet the surface, small drops giving way to general damp. The trees spilled heavy, fat drops onto my helmet, my saddle, down my neck. 

I unsaddled and found a fresh apple for Major, added a little alfalfa to his grass ration, and just stood in the rain. A little wet. A lot grateful. 

Is this early rain a harbinger of more storms, a predicted El Niño, a minuscule dent in a huge drought?

We can only breathe that after-rain smell and hope for more.