Perfect

[rejectomorph]

No more than mist and sprinkles manage to soak everything. Gusts of breeze make branches thump the house. Wisps of fog descend and wreath pines in transient shrouds. For hours, the night shows signs of turning fully blustery, but it never succeeds in doing so. The trees continue their slow drip of gathered water, interrupted by the occasional gusts which cause them to shake great, noisy showers, like a pack of big, wet dogs. The air is rich with the scents of damp grass and pine wood, and is surprisingly mild. When gray light begins to reveal the sodden landscape, the rain quickens at last, and drops go dancing across the shiny pavement where the glistening magenta dogwoods are reflected. It's going to be a perfect day.