The Birds Know

The birds know before we do.

Today was no exception. Hundreds of crows were wheeling around in the sky, cawing magnificently. I stood and watched them for a while, wondering what had upset them this time.

There was a change in the air.

Like Chocolat but without Johnny Depp.

I pegged out the washing because, well, it needed to dry.

I turned on the doorstep to look for a dog. There is always a dog helping with outside jobs.

And I noticed a pewter-grey edge above the trees.

Living here is peculiar. It is a valley between two ridges, and sometimes the weather goes one way and sometimes the other. Sometimes we have snow when no one else does, and sometimes it smiles through the rain.

I realised that if I didn't want soaked undergarments adorning the kitchen for days, then the risk wasn't worth it, so back I went and retrieved the freshly hung clothes.

It was raining before I reached the doorstep. Not light rain. Big, fat rain.

The thunder sounded at almost exactly the same time as the lightning strike.

Last night there was a huge system. It swirled around us and lightninged and thundered and rained, and we sat in the middle, blissfully untouched but privy to the most amazing light show.

Yet this afternoon, one thunderclap that nobody else heard.

It was over before I opened Lightning Maps.

I wondered if I'd made it up.

And but for the crows, I may well have thought I had.