Wet with belated April showers, the jasmine continues to scent the chilly air and the crickets do not cease their song. The moods of winter, spring and summer collide as starless night resounds with frequent downpours. Then early gray light wakes the freshly washed birds who sing as loudly as ever, despite the overcast sky. I hope for a day of continual dreariness, capped by an evening thunderstorm. There has been entirely too much sunshine of late. Alas, the weather is expected to return to its recent unduly cheerful state by Saturday. I would not be loath to have the rain linger through the weekend and swell the paltry streams, and soak more deeply the desiccated soil. But nature cares nothing for my desires. It would parch the world and leave my bones to bleach, letting them crumble to dust as arid ages passed. I must accept this single night and day of respite from the heat. After this, it will be the deluge of sweat.
My wish for a dreary day has been fulfilled. While sun worshipers mope about with chins dragging the wet ground, I revel in the rain that flecks the pavement with changing patterns, each bright drop sparkling as it joins the glassy, flowing throng. I expect to see dryads, naiads and sylphs dance up the street to the music of the pan pipe at any moment. The welcome sound of the downspout pouring forth its copious bounty could not be more beautiful. The splashing fall goes to swell the small but turbid rivulet that fills the road verge, carrying miniature flotsam-- the wreck of leaves, residue of pollen, shed pinfeathers-- off to build the soil of distant riverbanks and valley fields. Best of all, the clouds have waylaid the heat, leaving the afternoon cool and fresh. I'd like to keep this day for at least a week.