Lull

There has been a lull in the storm, and no rain has fallen for an hour. The absence of its drumming clarifies the sound of wind which, though diminished, still evokes the aspirate voices of the pines. The stirring of the air now reaches the ground as well, and brief gusts set the leaves of shrubs fluttering, to clatter like hundreds of clucking tongues. All this clash and murmur fails to obscure the chorus of frogs which now sounds, a bright sustain rising from the sodden woodland glades. The clouds do not depart, nor reveal the sky where stars near the hour of their fading. The landscape will soon grow less dim, and distance will return-- as will, I expect, the rain. For now, I can walk and remain dry, listening to my footsteps make a slight squishing sound on the wet pavement, and feeling the wind's teasing touch as the final day of February waits to dawn.

Spectacle

Hours of soft rain pattered through my sleep, and then a distant rumble woke me. The room was very dim, and gusts of wind drove raindrops against the windowpane. I dozed and listened. Suddenly, the closed drapes turned bright and the house shook to an almost immediate boom of thunder, and I was fully awake. A clattering told me that there was a hailstorm. I opened the drapes and watched the landscape quickly whiten, as more thunder rolled and the gray sky was brightened by lightning flashes. It was all quite splendid, but it lasted no more than ten minutes.

The quiet which succeeded the storm's end was broken by loud caws as dozens of crows gathered from every direction and drove the other birds from a stand of pines across the street. They kept up their racket for several minutes, and then departed southward. The gray slate sky began glowing with pearly light in the west while the hailstones melted, and the white street swiftly returned to glistening gray. The lower clouds, thinning, rushed by, revealing here and there the gleaming white cumulus which rose above them, and a few small patches of blue sky.

The saturated moss covering the mulberry tree dripped bright drops into a brown puddle which shimmered with reflected clouds. Patches of hailstones remained embedded in the brightening green lawn. Finally, the sun broke through and the wet mulberry twigs kindled almost as white as the hailstones had been, and a robin alighted on a branch outside my window. More birds arrived, and the afternoon was filled with songs.

Now, the clouds continue to drift and the evening is alternately bright and gray, and the birds perch on branches and wires, watching the intermittent sun settle beyond the pines. Gentle breezes stir the chilly air, flicking a few remaining drops of water from the camellia bush's leaf tips. It has grown very quiet here, but once in a while I hear a distant rumble in the mountains to which the storm has retreated. I miss it already.

Disportations

Torelli's History of the Tour de France. I like the pages covering the early years best. Full of old black-and-white photographs of guys on bikes. Handlebars on the bikes and on the riders' upper lips. There's something ineffably charming about it, and yet there is a vague unease as well, evocative of that time when the ancient world lingered, as yet unvanquished, in the same landscape with the modern. The music of Erik Satie kept playing in my head as I looked at these pictures. The charm begins to dissipate by 1920s, though. And then, for some reason, there are few photographs on the later pages, and none at all for some decades. It's just as well, I guess. Seeing what it once was, I have no desire to be reminded of what it became.