Comedy is Not Pretty

Comedy gold is sometimes grim.

(Link courtesy of polonius.)

Rain and Frogs and Flumes and Stuff

Yesterday's rain ended about the time I woke up, and I was treated to one of those mostly-cloudy afternoons when the sun occasionally emerges from behind its vaporous drapes like a star coming on stage for a curtain call. Drops of water still clung to the leaf-buds of many trees, and glittered brightly whenever a shaft of sunlight would fall on them. A flock of small birds alighted on the peach tree alongside my driveway and proceeded to strip it of aphids, or whatever small creatures were crawling on its bare branches. When the birds landed, they would shake the twigs and send beads of moisture falling through the light. Nearby, my cat watched the birds with some irritation, knowing that these undoubtedly tasty morsels are too agile to be caught.

With evening, the moon made its appearance amid the clouds and, for a while, illuminated an evening mist which wafted among the pine trees, accumulating in sufficient quantities to fill the night with the sound of drips falling to the damp earth. Somewhere to the north, a chorus of frogs kept up their song, hour after hour. If I go outdoors, I can hear them still. There is something cheerful in the sound of a large group of frogs. I'll bet there are many frogs around the banks of Concow Reservoir now. I'd like to make a late trip down there some night to listen to them.

What is Concow Reservoir, you say?

( Here is a Picture )

Heh

British humor. Still the best.