Clouds in My Cuppa

Clouds, rain and fog were our lot for an hour or two yesterday morning. Oilskins and rubber boots waited by the door, and umbrellas bloomed like peonies out in the darkling street. On our walks, tall trees floated into view like the masts of wooden sailing ships and then disappeared again in the mist. There was the swish of early commuters splashing through lovely deep puddles when they thought nobody was looking, the grumble of buses, the soft growl of motor vehicles heading uptown for the day's toiling.

Through the kitchen window came the smell of rain and wet earth as I sipped 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. There is never enough rain for the robins, and they were giving the day their all. Rain please, Mama, more rain.

There's something restful about such mornings. 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?