The gurgling of the downspouts was such a sweet sound early Saturday morning. With no perceptible wind noise, the spattering raindrops were like an almost-forgotten melody coming back to life. As I walked under a big umbrella, the raindrops drummed. Big ones, little ones and all very persistent. This was not a dramatic spring shower with great pyrotechnics such as thunder, lightning, glaring sun and then dark, brooding clouds. Rather it was a long, one-dimensional gray day with the steady, moderate rain seemingly never stopping until just before sunset.
The tulips, by mid-afternoon, had lost their ability (will?) to remain upright and laid themselves down onto the wet ground. The daffodils kept themselves more upright, but some were seen leaning a bit precariously by the end of the day. I suspect a strong breeze would have easily flattened them. The soil seemed to be expanding, just as a dry sponge finally fluffs after getting thoroughly soaked. Skinny worms were oozing across hard surfaces where small puddles stayed formed.
The wet air on my face, neck and hair felt like a refreshing dip in a slightly cool lake. Breathing seemed easier as the pollens and dust were washed from the air. It was a day meant for reading in bed, taking short walks, eating lightly, napping shortly, followed by more walks in the mild wetness. The brief red-orange light at sunset was the sole color spot in the day's atmosphere. How could so much wet grayness feel so nourishing?
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