Rain, rain, rain. Damp cloudy days, thick misty drizzles, downpours sluicing along the roofs, overflowing the gutters, and carving deep runnels in the driveway gravel. Sometimes, along about sunset, a wedge of blue, luminous white trimming the navy clouds. Then more rain.
The hills behind George's house blur in the fog, and the pastures are knee deep in green. Cow-knee deep.
We've found a wet-weather spring, alas, in our garden pasture--Tom can't figure out why he hasn't noticed it sometime before during the thirty years he has lived here. Me, neither--it runs right down the driveway. Pastureland must soak it up better than plowed fields.
Our little lettuces, celery, and onions are sitting in water in their furrows, at least the part closest to the fence. And planting that we had planned for next week might have to be postponed.
On the other hand, when we drove in last Sunday afternoon, the little green heron was parked right by the road, and the great blue flapped slowly up the creek, looking, as always, a little bit like a pterodactyl.
Sound is muted in the damp evenings, with the ribbed croaks of the frogs flattened to a murmur, a bit like a slow zipper pull in front of a decent sound system. Uh-oh, the unbidden visuals there remind me that, after all, this is still Music City. This is clearly getting out of hand.
Rain. More rain. Zippers as simile only. Do not tell me otherwise.