The Sun, a Hammer
The rain, a crescendo
It is summer, and the very air and plants are telling me so. The sky is not whispering her season, but shouting, the sun a hammer and the rain, when it comes, a torrential crescendo. Ice thumps into the plant pots and ricochets from table and road, hard marbles which swiftly chill the air and soil, then softly melt away. This is not a season of peace, but one of fierce personality, where every hand is full of spades and every morning flourishes with the promise of heat and growth.