they release rain in the afternoon, during the night, in the middle of the day.
I went to bed last night convinced that the night rain would stop sometime in the deep, black, early hours. my cycling clothes sat in a pile in the bathroom, and I'd pumped up my tires and checked my lights before I closed up for the night. alarm set for 4:45, I was going to have an early morning ride in between storms.
when I opened the garage door I looked at my driveway, noticing the damp cement that was beginning to dry, but also noticing hundreds of little dark spots that looked suspiciously like raindrops. I looked up, there was the almost-full moon, just a few thin clouds passing nearby.
clouds hung more thickly over the canyon.
well, hell, I was dressed, ready to go, what's a little rain?
it only sprinkled on me during the first mile, and for a few miles in the middle of my ride and I learned, many years ago, that I do not melt.
the pavement, however, was damp in the good spots, and plain old wet most everywhere else.
when I first spotted one, I thought it was a twig.
the second one was not a twig.
ten inches long, glowing with the reflection of my headlight, its tumid body slick with rain.
another one. eight inches.
another one, six or seven inches, then a big long twelve-incher. little five inchers.
I've heard that when you cut an earthworm into two pieces, each will grow into a unique body again. (apparently it depends upon where it is amputated -- the worm can possibly grow a new head or a new tail, or become two worms, or just die.)
I'm guessing that when I run over an earthworm, I'm probably cutting it into two pieces, and occasionally, cutting it in the exact right spot.
does this mean I'm increasing the earthworm population?
near the bottom of the canyon, on my way homeward, movement off to my right caught my attention. a deer, no, three deer. a fawn, two doe, grazing the hillside.
I prefer my wildlife to have legs.