John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
The weather app on my phone says it’s supposed to start raining in 30 minutes. Normally, I begin my day by watering my backyard garden and the plants on my deck, but if it’s going to rain, that would seem like a waste of time and effort. The forecast for the next few days predicts rain every day, with total rainfall expected to be several inches. Of course, the forecast could be wrong; in fact, it has been inaccurate quite a bit lately.
This spring has been noticeably drier than usual in our corner of the world – not quite the desolate, bone-bleaching aridity of Death Valley, but enough to make the land feel restless. The usual chorus of April showers and May’s gentle drizzles has been replaced by a stubborn, sundrenched quiet. The garden, typically lush with the emerald promise of new growth by now, wears a patchy, faded green, as if the earth itself is biding its time, waiting for the rain that’s been slow to arrive.
It’s not just the gardeners who’ve noticed. The creek on my mountain property, which usually babbles with enthusiasm this time of year, has dwindled to a sluggish trickle, its banks exposing cracked mud where frogs and crawdads once thrived. The wildflowers, those tenacious harbingers of spring, are fewer and farther between, their colors muted against the dusty backdrop. Even the air feels different – almost brittle, carrying the faint scent of dry grass rather than the damp, loamy perfume of a typical spring.
This dryness isn’t catastrophic yet, but it’s enough to stir unease. Farmers scan the horizon daily, their brows furrowed as they check forecasts with the fervor of gamblers awaiting a lucky break. Conversations at Terry’s Cafe have shifted from crop prices and tractor maintenance to the latest long-range forecasts. “It’ll turn around,” they say, with the practiced optimism of people who’ve weathered tough seasons before. But there’s a tension beneath the words, a quiet acknowledgment that nature doesn’t always follow human schedules.
The broader implications of this drier-than-usual spring ripple outward. Local ecosystems, finely tuned to the rhythms of seasonal rains, are showing signs of stress. Migratory birds that rely on wetlands for rest stops are finding fewer places to land. Beekeepers’ hives are producing less honey, as the wildflowers that feed the bees struggle to bloom. Even the human spirit feels the weight – spring is supposed to be a time of renewal, of muddy boots and vibrant growth, but this year, it feels like we’re stuck in a holding pattern.
Yet, there’s a strange loveliness in this thirsty landscape. The sunsets are more vivid, painting the sky in fiery oranges and purples as dust particles scatter the light. The resilience of life shines through in small ways: a stubborn patch of clover blooming defiantly in a ditch, or a hawk soaring high above, undeterred by the dry spell. It’s a reminder that nature, even when strained, finds ways to adapt, to endure.
This dry spring also prompts reflection on our relationship with the land. It’s easy to take water for granted when it falls reliably from the sky, but seasons like this force us to confront our dependence on it. Farmers are revisiting irrigation plans, towns are discussing water conservation and families are planting drought-tolerant gardens. There’s a collective recalibration happening, a recognition that we may need to adapt to a future where “normal” weather patterns are less predictable.
As I walk the cracked path toward the back rise of my property, I think about the cycles of nature and our place within them. This dry spring is a chapter, not the whole story. Rain will come eventually – maybe not on our timetable, but it will come. In the meantime, we watch, we wait and we learn. We learn to appreciate the fragility of the systems that sustain us, to respect the land’s limits and to find beauty even in the dry, dusty moments. Because even in a parched spring, there’s life – quiet, resilient and waiting for its moment to bloom again.
Note: The rain did indeed come, although a bit later in the day than forecast, and continued on and off for the next four days. Most of the communities that had enacted burn and water use restrictions have lifted them. To listen to an audio version of tis column, click here.