A low, leaden sky. Leaves blow backwards. A robin on a dead branch at the edge of the yard turns to face the woods.
Sitting in great discomfort due to a sprained back, I regard a deer-stripped black raspberry cane, naked except for its thorns.
Everything drips; I don’t notice that the rain has stopped until the sun comes out. A burst of song from phoebe, catbird and Carolina wren.