It rained last night. When I came up the stairs this morning, I saw through the glass front door there were puddles around the welcome mat on the front porch. While I stretched on my yoga mat, Gregorian monks chanted on the speaker. Through the window, leafless branches wavered in a way that matched the deep, somber forlorness of the chanting—like dancers swaying in rhythm to music. I stepped off my mat and stood behind the screen to the back deck. I put my nose to the screen and breathed in the air—humid, wanting to be warm, but chilled dampness. The clouds overhead were a an expansive layer of blueish-grayish with splotches of whiter areas where the sun wanted to break through. The few leaves left on the trees rustled as the wind blew. One bird chirped monotonously, while other birds sang sporadically. Squirrels darted along branches, nimbly hopped between trees, their brown fur blending in with the bark, but still more visible than when they had the leaves for camouflage. An unseen plane flew audibly above the cloud layer. Trucks were louder than cars driving along the highway across the pond.