How the Morning Vanished

That most persistent rain which began yesterday morning finally ended a short while ago. I had grown so accustomed to the grayness that the sudden appearance of a streak of blue sky surprised me. Within minutes, the sun emerged while the mulberry's twigs were still festooned with drops of water and the dense moss on its trunk still produced a cascade of hoarded rain. Dozens of birds began singing at once, including some thrushes lately arrived. The eastern sky remains a mass of clouds, but the west is now bright, and the whole wet landscape glitters and gleams. The air smells very strongly of pines.

The weirdness of my schedule continues. I nodded off unexpectedly after two o'clock in the morning, and slept for almost twelve hours, waking only a few times in the dark hours when the wind and rain became especially loud. So furious did the storm grow that I expected a branch or two to crash through the window, but I was still unable to keep my eyes open. I'd had an LJ update page open at the time I went to sleep, but waking briefly about dawn I found the thought of trying to stick words together into a coherent sentence so daunting that I just shut the machine down and went back to sleep. In fact, I'm still a bit bleary.

The next few days are apt to bring more rain, so I'm going out to enjoy the unexpected evening sunlight while it lasts.