Summer rain

Soft rain on a Saturday morning--in September. That's not supposed to happen. It's ground-baked dust and dry wind from now through October or so, or at least that's what it should be. Now, the weather has done a backflip, going all wonky and tossing out thunderclaps at midnight. The pavers are slick around me; my resident frog who lives in the damp corner by the lawnmower does his rusty hinge creak, defiant. This is my weather, he croaks. The turkeys come down the hillside, step by careful step--I don't think they have enough brain to really know what their feet are doing--poking in the dun-colored grass. A Bewick's wren skitters along the fence line, twitching and flicking as it pokes it's beak into cracks. Things come alive when it's wet, but maybe the bugs should still hide.