Pescatorean precipitation

Even in our charmed corner of the world, the erratic shifts in the rhythm of the year's weather rock us and scar us.

I walk down Chester Street, where the ancient plane trees arch in knobbly nobility.  This summer, the sidewalks and neighbouring verges are littered with scraps of bark, roughly the size of business envelopes.  Occasionally, I'm witness to the plummeting of some of them, clipping the pavement, and - so far - not my head.  It's probably only a matter of time.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw a stranger sight at my feet: about half a dozen tiny iridescent blue fish scattered across the concrete.  It was a hot Sunday morning, and the flies were already arriving.  I carefully picked my way between them, wondering where on earth they'd come from.

The Resident Fan Boy, on his way to church earlier, had witnessed the fish-fall.  He told me he heard a splatter, and caught sight of something falling from a cherry tree.  He thought for a fleeting moment that a bird had had stomach trouble - then he saw the fish, and nothing else.

They festered for a day or so, getting stomped and crushed, while attracting more insect life.  I found other ways to cross and walk, until a thundering hailstorm scrubbed the sidewalk clean -- while setting off several more wildfires up-Island.

I'm praying for a less biblical September.