Rain. Two doves and and a dozen starlings start up from a shed roof and settle on nearby aerials to watch the wood pigeon who routed them.
The new geranium has opened its first two flowers: deep purple trumpets. A bee flies in and swiftly out again, but the rain isn’t as picky.
Chased in by the rain again, I watch from the kitchen as sudden sunlight blazes on wet slate roofs, black clouds behind.
The rain stops. I go outside to read, a builder hammers, and the next-door neighbor steps out for a smoke. Then a raindrop lands on page 43.
5:30 AM. The torrential rain past, tits and sparrows crowd the feeders. The neighbor’s cherry tree sways under the raids of wood pigeons.
Gusts of wind salted with rain. A bumblebee somehow manages to hold steady, hovering in front of a kerria rose, then going to the elder.
Cold rain; the treetops disappearing into cloud. A Carolina wren lands on the railing with a beak full of leaves and a self-important air.
Humid. A dark cloud comes in, and the tin roof over the oil tanks rattles for 15 seconds—not even enough raindrops to rinse the pollen off.
Singers change with the weather: in the mist, wood thrush and cerulean warbler. Scarlet tanager in the drizzle. Indigo bunting in the rain.
Rain. A black birch at the woods’ edge may regret its timing, shaggy orange catkins making it look like the most Victorian of lampshades.