Raining in the Trees

It's strange to walk this morning. The ground is wet and the streets are shining. From the north, comes a mist-laden breeze and everywhere I hear the dripping and rustling sound of steady rain. Out in the street, away from the trees which gather to gossip at the creek, the rain is over. It was a good rain though. You can tell that by the lively, green rustle of the Virginia creeper, which has lately drooped over fences in a languid protest at this July heat. I walk a mile alone. It's Sunday. Everybody is sleeping in. Church doesn't start until ten o'clock, but you can't tell that to the birds. They are singing already. Loudly. Incessantly. Joyfully. That's what rain does for the thirsty.