Such a wild night . . . gale, pelting rain, jolts of thunder and lightning from dusk till dawn. My bedroom felt like a twig nest at the top of a spruce tree.

Now, in the faint morning, the world beyond the sodden window screens is pale and scrubbed. But when I let the cat out the back door, a warm breath of air stirred, and everywhere birds were singing insatiably.

The day looms, unplanned. The gardens are mud. A small pond lingers under the clothesline. The stones on the newly discovered front walk are washed clean, and gulls are circling and shrieking over the cove.

I should walk down to the marsh edge and watch the egrets stand on one leg. I should stomp in a puddle. I should crouch on a garden path and marvel at the pea shoots bursting through the clods.

I should.