. . . Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
And richness rare distills from every bough;
The wind alone it is makes every sound,
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself,
Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so;
My dripping locks--they would become an elf,
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

Henry David Thoreau

Awake quite early, restless night, and the rain. It is a thorough and drenching downpour. I am eager, post-heat wave, to be soaked in it. I head outside, slapping along. I think, I very well may head to my friend’s dock and take a swim. I am not sure, but that is, indeed, where my feet take me. The woods are quiet, deserted, the brook is a shimmer of circles. Down the slippery flagstone I go with my Charlie, and then a quick undress. Somehow I am the only one who wants to be in this bliss! There is a fine mist wind-pushed over the surface of the warm water. I am in. I look around and let the mist mist my face. The docks are empty. The masts of the sailboats stand still across the lake. The lifeguard stands are vacant. Charlie is fishing for rocks on the shore. There is one golden lily in bloom amidst the wall of rhododendron. I am quite at peace. I walk home happy and wet. The wild roses are blooming pink in the marsh with the cattails. A bee buzzes into the bloom. There is a whole day of necessary rain ahead. Tomorrow I will plant the new plants in the rain. In the garden, I am glad to see so many bright squash blossoms. There is plenty. I check to see if there are any butternut seeds sprouting yet. Not yet, but soon enough, I trust.