It’s been raining hard for days now. Mist rises off the ploughed fields like smoke, and the gutters chatter and slosh, water patters on the roof and pushes the leaves on the trees down, so that everything looks sullen.
The sky is only shades of gray. Pale gray where the rain slackens, then dark as pewter and trembling with thunder above the storm.
When the rain stops, deer come out of the thickets and stand in clearings, their coats dark and wet. In the field, cows lie low, hugging the ground, stubbornly keeping their patch of grass dry. Pheasants stand beneath the ferns, lifting one foot after another out of the puddles.
The road to Paris was flooded last night. My husband left for work and returned – turned back by the police.
Today I lined my English students up in front of the window and taught them to sing “Rain, rain, go away, come again another day!” They thought it was great incantations, and sang loudly as the rain poured down, nearly drowning out their frail voices.
The children were rewarded by a brief respite from the rain, and we rushed out to take the dogs for a walk around the village square, singing loudly all the time – “Rain, rain – Go away!”
I wonder what the neighbors thought?

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