Rain, wet and fog, oilskins and shiny rubber boots and vibrant umbrellas blooming like peonies in the still darkened street, tall trees floating into view like the masts of wooden sailing ships and then disappearing again in the mist, the swish of early commuters wading through lovely deep puddles when they think nobody is looking, the soft growl of motor vehicles heading uptown for the day's toilings...
There's the smell of rain and wet earth through the kitchen window as I sip my mug of green tea this morning, the sound of branches in the garden shedding their cloaks of wetness, a choir of jubilant robins in the still bare overstory singing down more life giving precipitation. They have been back for a few days now, and nothing ever seems to bother them, even the snow blanketing everything when they arrived.
If I could climb the old maple, I would be perched right up there with the robins, trilling for a whole day like these fine soggy hours just unfolding.
3 comments:
me thinks, it most likely a good thing, you not being able to climb the oak tree. tis a long way to the ground. ;-)
p.s. oh, by the way, a very colorful robin. i supposed he puffed his feather against the cold.
You make memories surface
of a young child (this one) who would
climb the old tree, find that comfortable place and would read the afternoon away...
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