It's drizzly, breezy, and cool this morning in North Texas, after a dry, blistering August. Rain fell most of yesterday. Just after sunrise I heard the distant popping of hunters shooting at, and probably missing, the few resident mourning doves that didn't head south when the cool front arrived. No worry. Migrants from Oklahoma and Kansas will arrive in a few weeks.
Cate and Maggs are soaking wet and feeling fine, treeing backyard squirrels, barking through the wrought iron fence at cottontails in the neighbors' yards. For the first time since May, I can imagine following a dog through the woods or across prairie.
Looking out my office window at drizzle falling on erstwhile prairie reminds me of the effect of rain on Blackland clay. Which, in turn, reminds me of this little Corb Lund tune: