The white petals of the black locust trees along the driveway have fallen like blown snow, strewn by a breeze on the gravel as if to prepare for a celebratory arrival. In the full mass of the bordering shrubs and plants are pink blossoms and purple. One large white peony, too weighty for its stem, leans out over the lawn, more fragrant than an aging woman, insistant, demanding notice.
And it rains.
Except for a coat of paint, the boat sits by the river, ready to sail, eager to show that its leaks are healed, confident in its now centerboard winch, its repaired cleat, now held in place by a half-square-foot backing plate.
And it rains.
Robin sits at her dock, her V-berth repaired and painted, her rails fixed. She waits for a mechanic, who cannot visit until June.
And it rains.