Friday evening. 5:45 p.m. 35 degrees. Our winter nor'easter has turned into a cold spring rain. Wind's reportedly blowing at 23 mph but it seems to have died. A single sparrow chirping in the bushes. Night coming on. The branches of our neighbor’s big maple growing blacker against the silhouette of her roof and the darkening sky.
5:55. Wind’s picking up again. The maple’s branches bouncing ominously in the breeze look more like long, ghostly arms rotating at the shoulders. But our neighbor’s lighted windows are warmly brightening the gloom, and Oliver’s just back from a walk with the news that the rain has stopped.