I knew it might rain, but the draw of the meadow was too strong, the peace of the trees calling my heart after a long winter of my own horizon being felled, tree by tree, shadow by dream. So we lay down our picnic blanket, and brought out our food, and the rain began falling.
The beautiful rain. It ensorcelled the world with a cold, whispering kind of magic that echoed the distant ocean. And it lured out rabbits, white-tailed and wild; they ran between the trees, through the rain, making me think of course of Hazel, Fiver, and Dandelion. (I always loved Dandelion best).
We were getting wetter than damp, so we opened our umbrellas and went on eating. And it couldn't get much better, really : a misty meadow lush with trees, a storytelling sky, and the wonderful sound of rain against our umbrellas. I wouldn't have wanted sunshine - not something as ordinary as that. It was an English-souled kind of day.