The waters of the bay and estuary are mirror smooth. It's low tide and they've drawn back from the edges of field and marsh, stands of salt grass stranded like tussocky islands in the midst of a sea of rich mud and sand.
The channels of the estuary are so shallow now that the herons who usually fish the edges are standing right in the center of the stream, intent as always on their prey, and perfectly reflected in the silvery surface.
Bright crystal cabochons decorate the petals of the last of the wild roses, and stand in bright contrast to the strappy green of the iris leaves in the marsh.
The chicory flowers have closed against the rain, their petals forming loosely gathered blue-mauve bunches along their wiry stems, the beads of yet-unopened flower buds a soft contrasting pink.
The first Queen Anne's lace has opened this week and stands tall among the grasses, looking impossibly fragile in the falling rain.
The rain has washed clean leaf, and blade, and branch, and flower and intensified the perfumes of the plants a hundred fold. The air is fragrant with green, with rose, and with lavender.
Puddles in our parking lot have become the Roman baths of Birdland, crowded with small busy brown birds, splashing away from their feathers the accumulated dust of days as they socialize, chittering to one another while they wash.
I am grateful for this soft day, for the quiet it has brought to my thoughts this morning, and for the thousand sweet memories its scents have recalled. It makes a gentle ending to this busy week.
I hope that, whatever the weather is where you are today, you find peace in your thoughts and sunshine in your heart. Have a joyful Friday.
