Rain and Robins Returning

Skies are cloudy, and outside the windows a gentle rain is falling. Beau and I are doing tea and listening to the clumps of snow falling off the rooflines of nearby houses, raindrops hitting the peaked roof of the garden shed in a fine staccato rhythm. The precipitation motifs of two seasons are rolled into one this soggy morning.

Mr. B. does not like wet weather and getting his feet wet, and he is curled up in a corner of the sofa, grumbling. He does, however, appreciate a fine puddle, and there is a lagoon in the street deep enough and wide enough for him to swim around in circles. That will cheer him up immensely when we go out to check the mailbox for bumph.

A murmuration of starlings is hanging out in the cedar hedge, and the puckish avians are pretending they are something else entirely, cardinals, robins, house finches, song sparrows. What is wrong with just being a starling? Robins have begun to return, and they have been visiting the garden this week. One is perched high in the old ash, singing his pleasure in the morning and the wet stuff.

Time to think about a new wreath for the door, perhaps something with sprigs of pussy willow and eggs in pastel colours (fake of course). A small ritual gesture is called for.