Where the mountain dips, in a place called the Kettle, is where you first can spot the rain.
When I was young, I used to think that the rain started there. Up from the springs that filled our reservoirs into the clouds that gathered in the alcove.
We rarely went to the mountain - it was a place filled with rattlesnakes and bears. The lowlands, wet and unpredictable, could swallow you before you even knew that you stepped into a quagmire. Whether this is true, is still yet to be discovered.
As children, we kept to the fields and picked the berries that grew wild in the fence rows. It has always been the wild lands that have called to me and the wild spaces that border the cultivated fields, marking a different pasture or signifying the property line where our land ended and the neighboring farm began, that have interested me the most.