Cold rain fell in the clearing, a thick, slow rain, as if the drops were contemplating a metamorphosis to snow. Nonetheless, a doughty clutch of juncos fluttered and jumped among the barren grasses of the dooryard. The poet, who was in the mood for the past tense, had chosen to invent the clutch of juncos. They may have been there, scratching among the grass seeds, or they may not have been. The rain was a fact, however.
Lately the poet had been rereading Wuthering Heights, a novel so believable yet so far-fetched that it seemed to drive her toward experimental deceits of her own, though why she was suddenly choosing to tell lies about juncos was unclear. Everything about Bronte's novel was cruel, yet the poet's response to it had turned out to be watery and dull. It was disappointing to be such a boring liar.