Yesterday, it poured down here in Seattle. But we needed to get outside, so we thought, Ah, fuck it, let's go to the park. In Sweden they have a saying: there's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. So I put on my hat and off we went. And, y'know, it was wonderful. We got soaked through, but I didn't give a shit. The world smelt so delicious that K and I, by this time looking like drowned rats, just hugged in the rain and laughed. Happy rats. We were the only people there. It was so quiet (apart from the sheeting rain and rushing creek and dripping leaves) that a raccoon appeared in the fork of a tree, and stared at us. K took a picture of that, too, but, eh, it's a crappy phone camera, and the rain made everything blurred, so I haven't even bothered uploading it.
Even the crows were silent.
I was struck by how intensely alive the park felt. Stuff growing everywhere. Every fallen log covered in lichens and moss and ferns. All the bankside vines and creepers budding (by today some of them will be blossoming). The dirt smelt as though it was waking up. Spring will be early this year.
Today, in fact, the sun is bright and the birds (looking a bit dazed) are singing. One robin was doing that robin-run thing (they lean forward like people in a Lowry painting, and they hurry along at an anxious, hopeless angle) on the deck when I took out the recycling this morning. It saw me and turned its back: it couldn't see me, so I couldn't see it. Deeply stupid birds.
So today I'm dry, and working hard, and only thinking of the park. I hope wherever you are you can get some fresh air. Enjoy it for me. It is, after all, one of the dozen daily delights.
