Clouds in My Cuppa

Clouds, cold mornings, rain and fog are our lot this week. Oilskins and rubber boots wait by the door, and umbrellas bloom like peonies out in the darkling street. On our walks, tall trees float into view like the masts of wooden sailing ships and then disappear again in the mist.  There is the swish of early commuters splashing through lovely deep puddles when they think nobody is looking, the grumble of buses, the soft growl of motor vehicles heading uptown for the day's toiling.

Through the kitchen window comes the smell of rain and wet earth as I sip my mug of tea, the sound of branches in the garden shedding their cloaks of wetness, jubilant robins in the overstory singing down more life giving precipitation. This is turning out to be one of the coolest and wettest Junes in memory, but there is never enough rain for the robins, and they are giving the day their all.

There's something restful about a rainy day. If I could climb the old maple in the garden, I would perch right up there with the robins, trilling for more days like these fine soggy hours just unfolding. Getting there in oilskins and wellies might be difficult though, and what do I do with my tea and the umbrella?