As dusk fell, rain began, the last light illuminating the vaporous gray of scudding clouds, the detail draining from the world and being replaced by the sound of water. Night now washed in the songs of rills turns cold, and wind has risen to shake the early blossoms. Today I saw small leaves, not yet green, bursting from the oaks. The cherry tree shows no sign of leaf or bud, though. Perhaps it is wiser than the other trees, or perhaps it is dead.
Oh, thunder! That was unexpected. I must shut Sluggo down, in case of power surges.