A rumble in the jungle then rain on the Rio Paute

I watched quietly as the swollen Paute River carted away dirt, stones, and scoured human debris from our recent historic rainstorm. It is a potent reminder that when absorbed in their enthusiasm, the gods of Fertility and Loss will occasionally flood whole villages and wash away livelihoods without regard to faith or frailty. It is a condition of living here. Cuenca would not be the place it is without the bountiful replenishment of water and the crushing robberies of rain.

As a form of compensation, the gods sent us their most trusted messengers to warn and inspire us; they sent us clouds.

Paute often awakes under a light gray blanket of clouds. However, on mornings when it is flung aside, a cobalt sky hoisting vast sails of rising clouds reveals an armada of majestic ships sailing a boundless sea. To match this grandeur, our earthly landscape is ribboned with golden hues of grassland and rolling rows of verdant cornfields. The river that sashays beside the town is transformed into a silvery necklace, reflecting tiny nuggets of sunlight and swatches of clouds like pearls scattered across the sky.

Some days, the early morning sun will hide behind mountainous clouds, foretelling the dark concoction the gods are preparing for the afternoon.

If you pay close attention, you can almost make out their minions preparing high in the upland distance — an unruly mob cloaking themselves in charcoal gray coats of the most voluminous sort. Within an hour, they are ready to tumble down from their lair on the mountain peaks for a “rumble from the jungle.” The anticipation of their descent is palpable; the dense air is charged with a sense of impending excitement.

The first round of thunder is distant, a muted sound like an errant ball rolling down a warped lane in a far-off alley. But then, the air thickens as the clouds, once light gray, now resemble gunmetal. The sky is suddenly illuminated by an explosive crack of thunder that heralds the impending deluge.

The thunder becomes a roll call, a drumbeat, a freight train, a furious wail of sovereignty demanding that all succumb to the almighty presence of unrelenting rain. Its power is undeniable, and the air is charged with awe and respect for the forces of nature.

The rain’s arrival triggers a frenzy in the streets as terrified rivulets of water flood the gutters in a desperate search for underground shelter. Trees and shrubbery shudder, and flowers either faint or bow their heads in submission. Water ricochets off awnings, drenching the unprotected who pray for a reprieve from the angry storm.

Everyday commerce that typically thrives screeches to a state of suspended animation.

The gods prevail. They are unequaled.

And then it is over. The clouds are spent for the day. Their wrung-out cloaks are flung like uncombed wool along the jagged edge of mountain tops where the rain is brewed. What remains is exhausted water dripping from leaves, branches, posts, and awnings, resting at last in cobblestone-shaped puddles reflecting the surprising light that surrounds them.

The air has freshened, and the scent of flowers is again revealed. The harboring sun beckons spinnakers of brilliant white clouds unfurling westward on an ocean of sky.

And then there is this.

Sometimes, the gods don a cloak woven of dreams — a soft gauze barely discernible from forest moss, an off-white noise that soaks up everything except birdsongs and the hushing of unneeded fears.

There are mornings when the whole world (at least as far as I can see) is cuddled up in rose-scented mist that is impossible to touch but grabs hold of you and keeps you in its sway.

This is the mist that churns the waterworks, squeezing it into rain destined for the rivers below. It charges them to carry the burden of everything captured in its path, slow or fast, to the last port of call: the sea.

I heard something small and incessant the other evening. I thought it was a field mouse or a tiny nocturnal bird that was nudging, prodding, and probing. But it was neither a mouse nor a bird. It was rain.

My roof was collecting rainwater, which succeeded in falling ever downward until it quenched Mother Earth’s thirst. That is what water does.

It is almost three in the morning. I am sitting at my desk, writing this story for you, and listening to a tick tick tick. Pinpricks of water fill a small clay bowl, cradling a small rose placed inside to cushion the falling water.

I heard something small and incessant. It was rain that had come to visit me.