Come back at night. I've always liked the ideal climate proposed in Camelot, where it rains only between midnight and 8:00 a.m. Actually, I'd change it to 6:00 or 7:00 a.m. because this time of year I like to be out in the garden early in the morning.
The rain is coming down hard. It started yesterday morning, but it feels as though it's been pouring for days. I went to an engagement party yesterday. The hostess had a long tent set up outside, with tables and chairs underneath. Before I got there, the heavy rain collapsed the tent. So it was in indoor party—crowded, but nice. The porch was filled with open umbrellas in all colors.
The engaged couple are singers, and they sang "People Will Say We're in Love," from Oklahoma. For some reason that song is often in my head. I'll be vacuuming or whatever, and I'll just come out with it. I don't know why. Usually there's an obvious reason—almost always connected to the lyrics—why a song pops into my head. Even when it's not obvious, the process of figuring it out can be quite revealing and interesting. But this song? It makes no sense to me. Has someone stolen my hat and my glove? No. Is someone sighing and gazing at me? No. Am I gazing back? No. Are my eyes glowing? Hardly. Maybe the answer is something simple. Like maybe it's just in my key.