My thoughts are sharp and barbed about work, drivers, people in check-out lines, strangers in a gas station, and my cats.

Upstairs like distant applause of many tiny hands rain slaps against a blue tarp ruffled by wind and water, but clinging tight where nails bind it to rotten plywood.

Off came the roof the other day and there, eaten by weather mold insects water and mildew was splintering plywood that sagged. Eek.

I get home and look upstairs at Jerry where he works to rebuild a room he peeled open like a can and tossed on the ground. Under the cover of a temporary cris-crossing of two-by-fours he is dry and happy. Rain taps overhead.

You taking the dogs out, he asks.

Yup.

In the rain.

Yup. Lily was jumping yelping nipping spinning since I walked in.

I don't want to ponder coincidences today.

Instead I take out a picture I shot in Maine.

Sunshine sends its pastel shades to push away night's bruised hues. Dew sparkles. The forest soaks in honey.

Lemon-tinted stains slip across tree limbs and pine bows, drip down trunks and chase shadows puddled near stones in the ground.

Sunlight rises like steam, and campers' dawn fidgeting adds to the white noise of living things.