I love stormy summer days where huge banks of clouds drift over rearranging the lighting moment by moment almost as if the whole world, or at least our little quadrant of it, were a movie set.  The sun bursts through after a downpour: The hero has arrived! Then an evening shot—though it’s only mid-morning.  That’s not a problem here with apertures opening as if on cue between billowy June cumulus.  Occasionally we even get a spotlight passing through, landing here on a nearly recumbent mulberry that yesterday was upright—a foreshadowing perhaps?  Or just another visual rhyme, the meter instilled through slants of light, the lack of or richness of shadow.  A wren the only moving thing for a long while beneath a momentary rainbow.



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