The rain puddles fat pearls on the window pane. Droplets skitter down the screens, moving in a zigzag from one square to another square to another, drawn down to the earth.
A curtain of green hangs behind the rain splashed window. New leaves, frilled pea-green, verdant lawn wildly dark and lush, flourishing weeds gaining foothold in flower beds, new frosted-emerald tips on the evergreens, lacy lime-green hanging in drifts from the rowan tree. Yellow and red bird-feeders break the viridescence, as they shake and shudder and flash in the wind-driven rain.
Mist-white birch trunks stand stark above the tumbled, grey-glistening stone wall. And a few hearty, luminous daffodils sway gold, waving in the cold, wet air.
The rough brown cedar fence leans away, away in the harsh wind; a wind that buffets and prods the tousled pink fuzz on black branches of the soaked crab apple tree.
The impenetrable surface of the neighbour’s deep pond is sable, pock marked by the heavy rain. A mating pair of mallards shelter beneath the overgrown hedge that borders the pond, occasionally venturing out to shake their wings and enjoy the wetness filling the wind around them.
The stormy day pushes at an open window, proffering hints of ripe wetness, fresh scents and new life. Snippets of wind-tossed bird song; echoes of warbles seep into the house.
The earth is thirsty, drinking full, stretching and coming alive in the ancient damp rituals of spring.