While following a trail in the woods yesterday, I had the distinct impression that Barley and I had crashed a wedding, and that a flower girl had strewn the path with dogwood petals. It was only the wind, of course, that had coaxed those dogwoods into letting go of their blossoms, and rightly so; they needed to make way for the berries that will form in the summer, ripen to glossy red in the fall, and feed the birds in the winter.
Thunderstorms have been almost a daily occurrence lately, and they came in the mid-morning yesterday, and again in the afternoon. Late in the day, Don and I sat on the front porch to take in the light show and symphony. Lightning flashed almost continuously and the storm was deafening; long peals of thunder were overlaid with the harmony of rain on the bricks and rocks. The finale was hail, its low pitched percussion on the steel roof, mid-tones on the deck, and high pings on the metal railing. In a matter on minutes, it filled the gutters and overflowed, bouncing like marimba sticks in the grass.
When it was over, white hailstones and dogwood petals filled the front yard. Mist drifted over the far hillsides, settled down in the valleys, and waited for the next rain.