Rain and fog. Gray-green lichen glows on tree trunks in the woods and on every twisted branch of the old crabapple beside the springhouse.
Two degrees below freezing, but the rain remains rain. Somewhere above the fog, an airplane’s single propeller.
The snow has retreated to the tops of logs. A squirrel’s scold-calls blend with the whine of traffic from over the ridge. A patter of rain.
After hours of rain, woods and meadow are shrink-wrapped in ice. The black birch twigs creak as chickadees land to liberate a few seeds.
Late morning, and it’s still not fully light—the clouds are too heavy. The sound of rain on the dry leaves like fat sizzling in a fryer.
Blue sky reflected in pools of rainwater in our seats. A magpie flies out of the elm’s crown with a nasal cry. I’m off to America again.
High gusts of wind salted with rain. Three goldfinches cling like limpets to the thistle seed tube feeder as it careens back and forth.
It stops drizzling by mid-morning; I dry off a chair to sit. The rose bush, I notice, still has at least 13 buds.
Bright sun illuminates the fading elder leaves, bejewels the rain-soaked grass, polishes the fresh dog turd.
Looking out at the pouring rain and a few sodden birds hunched at the feeders, I catch a whiff of pancakes through the walls.