A band of rain is coming according to the radar. It stretches from Tennessee to the Gulf and the wind picks up and dies down and the leaves seem to have received the information without need of a website, the chickens and ducks too.
They are agitato.
I feel it myself.
Mr. Moon is mowing before the rain comes and I've been out picking up downed branches, kicking yet more bamboo although some of it has escaped me. There is a twenty-foot length of it growing up amidst the leaves of the Japanese magnolia, straight as a flagpole. It seems almost to have an intelligence of its own, choosing places to come up which will hide it until its size makes it too much to merely kick over. I think I may get back outside and weed the tomatoes which are coming along nicely. The peas are blooming profusely but I have yet to see a pod. Have we planted some ornamental pea by mistake? I hope not. Although pea shoots are delicious themselves in salads and in stir fries.
And so it is Sunday and for whatever reason, the day I find myself most apt to be in the yard. I suppose it is the day I am most in need of being on my knees in the dirt. It is so humid today though, the very air swollen with water. Ah well. If what "they" say is true, I am sweating out the toxins although it is of my opinion that I would be better off (as would we all) not to introduce toxins which need to be sweated out in the first place.
There was a possum in the hen house last night when Mr. Moon went to close the door. It had disturbed the ducks to the point that they spent the night in the pump house. They cannot fly up to a roost but sleep on the floor in the hay, cuddled together like two apostrophes. They are alive and well today though. Mr. Moon chased the possum into the run and opened the door to it so that the creature could get out on its own. I have no argument with possums although they will kill a chicken and are one of the things we need to be wary of.
So much nature.
I better get out there and weed those tomatoes. It is Sunday and the sound of the mower is heard in the land. Soon enough it will be raining if not storming and then the mower will be silenced and I will hear the water fall, the wind blow, the wind chimes ring and sing out with it all.
I might clean out a closet. Or a cabinet. That would feel good.
I typo-ed "that would be god."
Well, what isn't?
Happy Sunday or a reasonable substitute.