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           Horses,sheep,cattleandpigsspraddledtheirlegsagainsttheshiftingofthemeltinggroundandletthewaterpourovertheirtwitchingbodies;mostofthemhadbeenbornsincerainlikethishadlastpassedacrosstheirworld.Inthecemeterytherainwashedthedustaway,whitenedeverything,washedthedustofftheoutstretchedwingsoftheblandBotticelliangel.Thecreekproducedatidalwave,itsroaringfloodminglingwiththedrummingofthesoakingrain.Rain,rain!Rain.Likeabenedictionfromsomevastinscrutablehand,longwithheld,finallygiven.Theblessed,wonderfulrain.Forrainmeantgrass,andgrasswaslife.

           Apale-greenfuzzappeared,pokeditslittlebladesskyward,ramified,burgeoned,grewadarkergreenasitlengthened,thenfadedandwaxedfat,becamethesilver-beige,knee-highgrassofDrogheda.TheHomePaddocklookedlikeafieldofwheat,ripplingwitheverymischievouspuffofwind,andthehomesteadgardensexplodedintocolor,greatbudsunfurling,theghostgumssuddenlywhiteandlime-greenagainafternineyearsofgrimingdust.ForthoughMichaelCarson’sinsaneproliferationofwatertanksstillheldenoughtokeepthehomesteadgardensalive,dusthadlongsettledoneveryleafandpetal,dimmedanddrabbed.Andanoldlegendhadbeenprovenfact:Droghedadidindeedhavesufficientwatertosurvivetenyearsofdrought,butonlyforthehomestead.