Unstormy Rain

I'm listening to rain spatter the mulberry leaves. There are more of them to be spattered now. Only a few nights ago there was still more sky than tree, but tonight I noticed only a few patches of moonlit cloud were visible amid the dark mass of leaves, and the lines of twigs and branches are gone, engulfed by the foliage. They make the gentle spring rain almost as loud as the downpours of winter. Yesterday afternoon was a time of steady sprinkles, and evening brought the scent of wood smoke from some nearby fireplace. The faster rain which is now falling did not begin until late, after the moon had set and the clouds gone dark. Until then, the crickets sang, undeterred by the soft drizzle. If they are singing still, I cannot hear them above the clatter of raindrops striking leaves. Stepping outside, I see that the clouds have swept low and, as they drift, veil and unveil the tops of the taller pines. Should they settle lower still, We will have one of those delightful foggy rains. Standing on the porch, I can see the shaft of light my window spills which illuminates the low branches of the mulberry tree. The leaves quiver as the raindrops strike them, and the falling water sparkles. I put my hand out, and the drops which land on it are no colder than a cat's wet nose.

Clearing

The rain has ceased and now the clouds begin to part. The day is silver and green, and the wet pavement shines as rays of sunlight emerge from patches of blue sky. Leaves glint, darken, then glint again. The beaded lawns host flocks of small birds. A brief sun-shower sends a cat scurrying for shelter. Cloud shadows scurry, too, as more and more blue brightens the day, the even tones of overcast giving way to intense contrasts. Full sun emerges, and the dark undersides of the translucent mulberry leaves begin to glow, the entire tree becoming a frozen fountain of green light. The air does not stir as the clouds vanish, silver edges encroaching on dark centers until there are no more than small white puffs which steam into oblivion. The street quickly dries, the wet patches shrinking like the clouds above them, until they are gone. In a short time, only the dark dampness of shaded soil under the bushes retains any imprint of the dispersed storm. All the birds are singing, and the scent of pine fills the afternoon. Spring is back.