Birds in the rain

As I washed up this morning, I looked out of the kitchen window and saw a perfect rainbow arcing over the park against a sky the indigo of a thumping bruise. J and I set off to walk Jane's dog - and then got a text that he was all right and had already been for a walk, which was a good thing because the rain was starting again; within seconds it was full-face, can't-see with-glasses-on spray and we rushed back home again after going 500 yards, laughing and swearing . I will go out later for the papers, and food for the fish, and to the butchers to get more lamb-scrag-end for a casserole ( last night's first attempt was a huge success, we fell asleep early, stupified with rich beer and vegetable gravy, stuffed with lamb that could be cut with a spoon. I'm doing it all again for a Sunday feast with friends.)

But now, the skies are opening.

I am sitting in the study, my face still-tingling from the rain, looking out of the window. It is full-power-shower blast, coming almost horizontally, now it is crashing straight down as the wind suddenly drops. There was a drum roll of thunder and a cymbal-clash of lightning, and the small brown birds who peep and fuss all day in the ivy on the derelict garage at the end of my yard all suddenly flew up and went and sat on the chimney pots of my neighbours house. Twelve chimney pots, ten birds, all determinedly facing the rain and angling their bodies to the geometery of the weather, lifting up their beaks as the water poured off their tails. The storm made their feathers flutter and shiver, sometimes they almost over-balanced and had to grip with their claws, or were lifted up by gusts, but instead of hiding behind the chimney pots, they deliberately put themselves into the path of the elements.

I wonder what it is that makes them leave the shelter of the ivy-smothered roof and stand together to face the oncoming storm? Perhaps if you know you are going to get drenched and buffetted you might as well enjoy the excitement of it with friends rather than cower and mope alone.

The worst of the wind and rain has passed for now, and the birds have flown away. The sky is the grey of prisoner's sweats, of once-white washing that went in with dark jeans. The geranium petals are glowing, and there are no birds to be seen or birdsong to be heard, only the drip of rain falling from shining leaves.