In this half-lit hour, wet sidewalks glisten, and a steady breeze spins and rattles among the leaves. There's no rain falling at the moment, though the air is spongy with moisture. 

A Carolina wren bursts into voice. Teary, teary, teary. Teary, teary, teary . . . She repeats, repeats, repeats, then suddenly falls silent. A gust flutters the screen door.

Upstairs Chuck chirps at Tom, and Tom replies, Oh? In the strengthening daylight I note that the neighbors' driveway is pasted with soppy leaves, and now a next round of drizzle begin to tap at the panes.

Here's hoping for storm all day, pot of minestrone on the stove, cup of tea in hand, reading books by the fire, occasional check-ins on the Sox and the Bills games, nothing much, nothing important, a wet Sunday at home, Chuckie scrabbling noisily among the dining-room chair legs, a loaf of bread on the rise.