There's something about a very wet Sunday: it feels like a kind of holiday, when everyone is obliged to do nothing in particular. T and I spent our Saturday rushing from one project to another and, in contrast, spent our Sunday idling over poems (me), photo contact sheets (him), Donne and Le Carre (me), the New Yorker (him), as a fire hissed in the grate and the cups were repeatedly refilled with tea. Early afternoon, I tuned into the Sox game on the radio. Late afternoon, we yawned and stretched and donned our raincoats and splashed around the block to the local restaurant, for a drink and some oysters. It was all very urbane.

And it was a good thing, too, that we had such a relaxing day because the night was wild. A gale whipped up, rain crashed against the windows, the roof felt like it was lifting off. Even the cat struggled to stay calm. Nobody got much sleep for a while.

This morning my cold frame is upside down; the row cover blew off the chard bed and wedged itself between the cars; the cucumber trellis is flat; twigs and catkins and garbage cans are everywhere. Apparently we got 3 inches of rain; what a torrent!

But now, it seems, the storm has blown out to sea. A bit of slow drizzle patters against the windows, but the wind has gentled. Cardinals are singing loudly; the cats have resumed their prowls. After I get dressed, I'll try to resettle the garden arrangements and figure out what other damage might have ensued.