In a subtle climate, one becomes quick to notice smallest changes; everything we are is about the growing season and how much snow is on the mountain, how high or low the rivers are. Winter has been a worry, on the heels of an odd autumn. Autumn was a prolonged dry spell, with an uncharacteristic metallic sun hanging, and no rain to put the season to bed. The bees were tested with no food left to collect and no signal to huddle inside and wait it all out.

Winter has been sinister-dry with the same sun but a brass color with cheap gold overlay. Except the rain has finally come, not in usual constant drizzle, but in sporadic, protracted, great torrents. Enough to startle us from sleep to check the basement, foundation, outside areas. Today I picked up tree parts in our yard, deposited by trees we don’t even have.

The Daphne is a month late. And now that it has bloomed, those blooms bear brown spots as if it is ready to quit. The usual scent of ambrosia has a sour note like glue; like on its last legs. The ground is past soaked sponges, gone to deep mud for slipping — everywhere is footprints filling in behind.

During a national conference of permaculturists 4 years ago, one told me: Yeah, this will be a rain forest in 50 years. I can see it, and I think about it a lot. Our voices, music, TV have to be turned up over downpours. It’s loud. It sounds like we are living in a washing machine.

I always speak of moving, but where is there to go?

Some of the more hopeful Daphne.