The garden behind my house smells of lilacs and wisteria.
All the purples of spring carried through the air to where I sit.
The sky overhead has gone cloudy, perhaps it will rain later.
The sounds around me are a mix of human engines and the chirps of birds. A saw, a weed whacker, an air conditioner, a horn, and also a robin, some doves, a far-off crow. I glance over my back wall and laugh to see that the business on the other side has parked a mobile billboard where it can peer disapprovingly at me.
A distant rumble of thunder suggests that rain is coming sooner rather than later. I’m glad for the rumble and the rain. Summer rain is among my favorite things. My garden feels of summer though we’re barely mid-spring. The weather is spring, but I’m in the head space of summer where long days only have the structure that I give to them. The lawn has begun to have dry spots. I’ll need to readjust the sprinklers.
Our gargoyle Winston sits in one of the dry spots. He’s been a resident of our garden for the past twenty years. He acquired his solar light only last year. He has a lady bug rock painted by my mother to keep him company.
The red bistro table and chairs where I sit are also newer. I don’t use them nearly as often as I should. They lend brightness to my space and my heart.
The wind picks up and tiny maple flowers fall from the tree like rain. Rumbles grow louder and the first drops of real rain hit me. My old lady kitty informs me it is time to go inside now.
While my young gentleman kitty would very much like to join the outdoor adventures.
Still I sit as rain drops accumulate on my arms and my page. I’m prolonging this outdoor moment before I retreat to the safe interiors of my home. Distant lightning flashes and thunder rolls loud. The wind is lively around me, tossing loose strands of hair into my face and out of it again. Petals from pear blossoms land in my lap, carried across the length of the lawn.
Rain comes in earnest now and a sharp flash of lightning comes with a crack of thunder. Time to go inside.
