Drip, drip, drop. All night, all day.
“Quite enough, thank you,” murmur the cedars.
“Wheeeeeeeeee!” squeal the daylilies.
Laden, so heavily, the roses still manage to waft their fragrance, albeit within a much smaller radius.
Cozy and dry, nestled in a sturdy bed of clothespins, Wren Momma sings her lullaby to Wren Babies. Until the Giant approaches, again, that Nosy Thing. This time with her camera.
I took a string of photos trying to capture Wren Momma, but this was the only one in which she wasn’t shouting expletives at me. “But I’m a new momma too!” I assured her, to no avail. You’re right, Wren Momma. Then I should know better. But being that this is your family’s second summer in the Clothespin Cottage, I had thought we could be on a more neighborly level. Would a pie have improved my chances?