This morning, everywhere is full of rain again.
We have had some lovely days, as well, when I would get back from my walk and write absolutely nothing.
Some days are so perfect, there is no need to write about them. Days when the sky is a far-off blue, and the sun is warm, and the river sucks gently in its contented smugness.
And sometimes there is nothing to say . . . It just is, like the evening in the haiku by the Japanese poet, Matsuo Basho:
On a withered branch A crow has alighted: Nightfall in autumn.
It is an acceptance of the universe just as it is, now . . . and now. Change itself seems to be floating in a perfection of wordlessness.