Rain from a named storm seems special, like strands of hair from someone famous. Two spring peepers are calling, and faintly, the phoebe.
The dampness thickens into drizzle. Its soundtrack: the unending trill of tree crickets. The forest begins to glisten like a salamander.
The Saturday laughter of children. Drizzle seems as if it’s impending, but there’s only a light breeze and the distant whisper of trains.
I carry a dry chair into the drenched garden. Elderberries dot the ground and raindrops dot the elder. A sudden shuffle of woodpigeon wings.
Raindrops dangle from the clothesline like diminutive socks. A sudden shower under the mock orange as two gray squirrels race through it.
Rain. The pleasing randomness of which leaves will nod next—as if any crowd could have members so utterly uninfluenced by those around them.
After days of raininess but little actual rain, the garden is simultaneously damp and dry. A second tomato has begun to ripen on the stake.