As young children, we don’t think we know all the answers to everything yet, so we find ourselves ever discovering and learning and wondering. Do we ever want to lose our sense of wonder and imagination—that desire to enter and celebrate life without analyzing or understanding it? I close my eyes and try to recapture and experience what it felt like just to be a child on a summer’s day. . .

A little cloud of stale dust follows my fingers across the wire mesh of the screen door. Flies and mosquitos drone and whine in the midday heat, trying to squeeze through the screen into the dull old farmhouse. Beads of sweat collect on my brow. My lips taste salty.

I focus through the screen to patches of thirsty weeds and dandelion fluff dotting the path to the barn. The poplar and willow bushes to the left and right stand motionless against a strangely dark horizon. To the right of the barn is Mommy’s vegetable garden. Past the garden is Daddy’s golden wheat field.

The screen door squeaks loudly into the stillness of the afternoon and slams shut behind me as I step out onto the porch. The silvered boards feel hot under my bare feet. The air is so still. Only the sky moves.

Dark, angry clouds move stealthily over the horizon like an advancing Nipawin war party. A white flash suddenly pierces the ranks, sending gun-shot thunder-cracks echoing into the distance. The poplars and willows begin to bend and sway to the roll of distant drums. Dandelion fluff whisks across the yard, whirling and dancing to the beat. Slowly, a dark shadow steals over the barn. The air is split by another flash of flaming arrows and a deafening crack vibrates the porch. The air turns liquid!

Rain dances hard on the porch, frothing and foaming into rivulets that disappear between the cracks of weathered boards. It beats on the dry ground, raising poofs of acrid dust. The barn looms up like a grey ghost behind the torrents of rain between us. The fields and Mommy’s garden mysteriously disappear into a white-blue haze. Sounds of a million drummers fill my ears. The wind whistles around the old farmhouse and sighs heavily through the trees. Another resounding crack and rumble add to the crying wind and pounding rain.

Slowly, the shadow moves and passes over the barn. Then, almost as suddenly as it all began, the rain stops, the wind dies. Rays of sunshine ignite the barn. Everything is dripping, glistening, steaming, and sparkling! The porch feels wet and warm. Cool puddles swirl around my toes.

I drink in the clean, sweet air in slow, deep breaths. Suddenly, with an enormous leap, I’m running, jumping, splashing, dancing! I’m a wild horse—the cool ground passes beneath my flying bare feet in a blur of sparkling puddles and swirling sand. My long mane flies and ripples behind me. The tree tops gently sway to the rhythm of my pounding heart.

Slower now… I catch my breath. High overhead blue sky and dark clouds waltz across the heavens. Between them, ribbons of brilliant colors cascade down to golden wheat fields. I stop and stare in wonder and worship. My child eyes both absorb and reflect the overwhelming vastness and beauty of the living, breathing heavens. Gradually the colors begin to fade. The clouds move away. The dance is done.

I turn and slowly walk back down our long driveway, circling puddles that quietly reflect the poplar trees, the blue sky, and my shadow as I pass by. Sodden legs climb the porch steps, and weary arms pull open the old screen door. I return to the warm familiar farmhouse, and the screen door whines and slams shut behind me. . . echoing through time.