That loopy woodpecker is still trying to drill into the mailbox up the block every day. I wonder what makes him persist? Has he discovered a new species of insect that lives in metal? Is he attracted to the residual scent of those perfume strips that come in magazines? Does he imagine that he's an alarm clock?
A more sensible woodpecker is pecking on a tree nearby, making a more pleasant sound, a bit like something one might hear in a piece of Japanese music. It's sharp, yet resonant, and austere, yet rich. Woodpeckers make some of the best music.
The rain which looked as though it might fall yesterday afternoon finally arrived after midnight, but only as brief, rapid showers interspersed with periods of fine mist. Earlier, there had been bright flashes of sheet lightning to the north, but never any sound of thunder followed.
A gray morning filled with wet white lilies and pale red camellias, the moss lush and dark green, the pavement shiny and the trees motionless in the cool, still air. Now that the odor of skunk is dissipating, I can smell wood and grass, and the smoke of someone's morning fire. By the time I wake up this afternoon, it could be entirely different. April is full of surprises.