A tiny bird flies onto the drenched window and sits stunned and shivering on the sill. Past the drip-run glaze the sodden fen is frothy with new growth and topped with glistening, bouncing haze. On the horizon where the dark clouds bellied with rain dip grey as an ache into the green, watery ferment, yet more clouds rise up. These are whiter but not white and round topped, like a damp stain rising into the wallpaper of the sky. The tiny bird recovers its composure and zips away into the water-grained distance. The swelling water-spirit under the land is filled with creaking, hissing joy at this summer feed and its billion bouncing acolytes tap-dance on the roof as it rains, and it rains, and it rains.