“Yeah, water’s seeping through everywhere.”
“Rain’s been bucketing down for days. Ground’s soaked.”
“We need to get everyone together for a party.”
The word ripples throughout the region.
“Did you think we wouldn’t be coming along to join the fun?” Gate-crashers launch themselves into a whale of a shindig, full of life after their long, dry slumber.
“Let’s hope for early frosts,” the newly sprung blades of grass and tender green pasture stalks mutter amongst themselves as rampaging weeds dressed in broad-leafed coats, thorned hats and feather shawls hijack the celebrations.