One of my favourite things about late afternoon rain is when it eases to a fine mist and the magpies bounce along the grass verge plunging their beaks into the earth, emerging with gyrating worms or unsuspecting bugs who thought they were safe under grass blades dressed with raindrops.
The road looks like it has been rubbed with the blacking my grandmother used to keep her wood fired stove looking brand new. It is flawless and neat.
The magpies call to one another in that gentle trill they have that is halfway between joy and crying then fly from the grass to rooftops, circling and gliding until they settle on chimney pots where they nod and flap and trill at one another in what must be a kind of magpie parliament.
The decision made they fly off, away from storm clouds to a place I imagine is full of green mountains and peaceful streams, calling to their brothers with every beat of their wings. Forming the delineated, mystical shapes seen on rune stones.
I watch for as long as I can until my eyes are sore from squinting and dream I can still hear their trill from the garden.