It is a dull, overcast day here. Rain has pelted down intermittently and by now has thoroughly soaked the city of Dallas. The clouds are so low they almost seem to touch the tops of the trees. A damp wind sways the branches.

A blue jay perches briefly in the top of a small oak that sits so close to my third floor window, I could reach out and touch the bird, if it allowed. The jay seems to improvise a fan dance as it pulls first one wing and then another to its bill and rearranges the damp feathers. It then shudders from head to toe and then inspects to see if this action got the rest of the feathers aligned properly. Dissatisfied with the result, it repeats the shudder. Then, as though the bird suddenly remembers a previous appointment, it takes flight, winging out of view.

The branches of the tree are dripping with rounded prisms, each of which holds a glowing, inverted view of the world around it. The gray sky seems much brighter in these strange reflections. Thousands of such droplets hang randomly throughout the branches. The added weight of raindrops cause these wet convex lenses to roll off their perches, soon to be replaced by another.

The normally dry gully below is rushing with water. I can hear it as it gushes its muddy way into the forest beyond. Few sounds are as peaceful.