It must have rained while I slept, but it had stopped early enough that the ground was dry by the time I woke. The leaves, though, were still beaded with drops which reflected the gray sky and the green land. A bumblebee flew from a bush, scattering bright droplets dislodged by its wings. Later, the rain returned and the pavement grew wet and shiny, and the bright calendulas were reflected in the asphalt as a blur of orange that made me imagine glowing embers behind black glass. That image had to substitute for a sunset which, once again, was prevented by the great density of the clouds. Since dusk, the rain has fallen steadily, its sound as bright and cheery as the bird songs which filled the dim evening. It will probably continue throughout the night, but thus far I have heard no thunder, not even from the mountains where it sometimes rumbles this time of year, distance turning its booms to something like the purring of a big cat.