No rain. The long term forecast turned out to be wrong. Most of the time, it does. The clouds today are merely decorative. The wind has died down, too, and the fallen leaves lie still and shiny in the bright sunlight. Once in a while, the light dims as a filmy, silver sheet drifts across the sun, and the scene turns as soft as the air. Yet, despite the tranquility, I find myself restless, wishing to be somewhere else. I envy those who are traveling, aimless and free of tasks. Since I must be here, I choose to irrigate the plants. I listen to the water trickling down along the roots of the sourgrass to feed the dark green leaves and the pale purple flowers, and watch the dark patch of dampness spread through the soil like the effect of the rain that didn't come.