Rain Again

Rain returns softly and, with the full moon's help, turns night to a shimmering hall resonant with liquid sound. So relaxing is this music that I almost fell asleep several times as I sat reading. I spent little time with Sluggo, as I did not wish his hums and whirs to interfere with the sounds of rain and soft wind singing in the pines. Some nights are simply not meant for computers. He needed a rest, in any case, as did I. I think that this evening I might be back. On the other hand, I might decide that the rain needs more of my attention. We shall see.

Gray and Green

The pavement on one side of the jagged, diagonal crack which runs across the driveway is shiny and reflects the cloudy sky and damp trees. On the other side of the crack, it is matte black. I like the way things look when they are wet. (No comments about wet T-shirt contests, please.) There has been no rain for a couple of hours, but the luminous blue-gray overcast prevents the sun from evaporating the moisture. The thick green leaves of the camellia bush glisten, and the tree boles are almost black, except where they are covered with the deep green plush of moss. The lawns have recovered from the recent cold spell and the rain has restored their plushy green as well. There are countless shades of green filling this gray day. The only other vivid colors nature provides are the reddish-brown of wet pine needles which lie along the verges of the road, and the small bit of yellow at the spiky tips of drooping gladiolus plants. It won't be long before the hard little buds of the camellia will open and stick out small tongues of fiery red in defiance of winter, but for now the green and gray and brown and black dominate the world and narcotize the eye.

Too, I enjoy the dank smell of the rotting leaves I have left to lie beneath the wild plum bush outside my window. Along with the hint of wood smoke, it adds a pungency to the clean scent of fresh winter air. A few birds are about, too -- no warblers, but winter birds with squawks as sharp as the cold. I listen for their calls to be joined by the spattering of returning rain or the rising breeze by which it might be presaged. For the moment, the birds alone invade the stillness as the day dims toward evening.