Even now, with all the dams and levees controlling floods, heavy spring rains can turn much of the valley floor into a series of lakes which mirror the bright sky after the storms pass. I can imagine the rivers running wild across the countryside, silvery threads miles wide, pouring into the lowlands around Sutter Buttes, turning them once again into the islands they were anciently, when the central valley was a vast inland sea, before ages of erosion silted it up with the earth of deepening mountain canyons and drove the salt marshes at last into the small region of the delta, just before the joined rivers flow through the gap in the coastal range and debauch into San Francisco Bay.
This afternoon, the gray rain was briefly graced by a sudden brightening of the air. Some thin stretch of the cloud cover blew across the sun which, though unrevealed, filled the misty day with a vibrant glow, so that light seemed to emanate from the colors of the leaves and flowers and from the rain itself. I stood for a while, watching drops of water fall from the mulberry tree into a pool which had formed at its base, each drop sending up a bubbly splash like a miniature fountain. Then the storm drew a heavier cloud across the sun, and a heavier shower beat down through the darkened day just as a pair of swans flew low over the treetops, trumpeting vigorously. The shifting moods of such days are like my life passing before my eyes.
I came across this journal, which I can best describe as a paragon of cryptic whimsicality. The things you find on this site!
Also: Are all your base belong to pairs? (Mouse over Google masthead.)