I woke to the muffled booming of thunder and the pattering of rain. The scent of freshly rinsed grass, drenched leaves and damp earth seeped past fluttering curtains, into the green darkness of the bedroom.
I closed my eyes, tried to pretend that I wasn't awake.
The thought of kitchen and sun room windows left open overnight niggled at me as the drumming of rain on the roof increased.
When I swung my feet over the side of the bed and sat up I was surprised to find Teasel cat crouched on the rug.
She kept pace with me down the stairs and into the gloom of the kitchen.
The windows were shut.
It was unsettling to realize that I must have slept through Jim prowling the rooms earlier when the rain began.
I pulled on clothes, shoved my feet into rubber crocs and padded out to the porch.
Charlie-cat burst through the opened door with his usual cheery morning natter.
One sniff of the rainy day outside convinced the boy cats and Teasel that they didn't want to risk wet feet and they backed away from the doorway in distaste.
I tended plants and seedlings on the side porch, then during a lull in the rain headed down to the garden. A toad scrabbled into the relative shelter beneath the rugosa that leaned over the steps; Willis popped up beside me, ready to serve as escort.
Raindrops splattered through the canopy of the oaks beyond the garden fence.
Trees cover the ridges which enfold our house on three sides; during a summer rain they seem to lean in, casting a dark green gloom.
The blooms on my newly planted clematis are ravaged by the rain, the petals stained and shabby.
The nameless rose in the fence corner is having a second flush of bloom.
It too, suffered an overnight beating from the rain.
The unstoppable rugosa has been growing out of bounds for several weeks.
Now, weighted with rain, over-reaching branches presented a hazard, scratching at me as I walked up the steps. I found gloves and pruners, lopped off the offenders.
Loud rumblings of thunder heralded a fresh assault of rain.
Willis and I hurried for the shelter of the porch.
Bobby Mac, who is terrorized by thunder, has refused to go outside, instead hovering all day underfoot, retreating under the bed during bursts of rain.
Walking down the lane in the calm of early evening, I looked back to note swirls of grey mist drifting in from the woods, shrouding the porch, floating over the garden.
The air feels thick and humid, harbinger of the long weeks of summer.