Steady, hard rain blurring the transition from night to day. How much silence there’d be if it were snow. How much more light.
Cold rain. The last scrap of December’s snow in the yard has shrunk to the size of a handkerchief. A back-and-forth between a titmouse and a chickadee.
Hard rain beginning to ease by late morning. Chirps and twitters become audible. The last patches of snow line the road like litter.
Thin fog/low clouds. It feels as if rain could start at any moment but does not. A Carolina wren nearly drowns out the sound of traffic.
In the cold drizzle, a squirrel looks less gray than silver, shining dully as she crouches under the fur umbrella of her tail.
Cold rain. Four chickadees in a high-speed chase around the yard pause in the lilac for a vociferous exchange of views.
Rain-slick trees green with lichen dance in a puddle’s punctuated sky.
Warm rain. The snow has shrunk to a few scrofulous patches in the woods. Half an hour before sunrise, a bluebird is singing.
A lull in the rains. The transition from a watercolor world to pencil-brown and charcoal-gray is nearly complete.
Steady drumming of rain on the porch roof. Dark trunks disappearing into fog. A classic November day.
A half hour after sunrise, a rattling in the fallen leaves: raindrops! Slowly accelerating into an actual shower. Which peters out much too soon.
Rain tapering off by mid morning. The sun even emerges for one or two seconds, setting off a crow.
Light rain seasoning the breeze. A squirrel perched on a swaying limb chisels open a walnut—that haunted-house sound.
A mid-morning break in the rain. The sun almost comes out. From up in the woods, the shrill panic of a squirrel just missed by a hawk.