Sun rain sun rain sun rain

The Berrymans, a Wisconsin folk duo, have a song called "Bird, Bird, Bird" in which they chronicle driving through a rural small town. The portion about the outskirts runs:

House, house, trailer, yard sale
Trailer, trailer, yard sale
Tavern, high school, bike trail
Gas pump, trailer, yard sale
Road construction, EAT NOW
Strip mall, pig farm, sow, sow
Silo, tractor, barn, plow
End construction, cow, cow.

This same narrative technique, applied to the Seattle weather of the past seven days, would sound like:

Rain rain rain rain sun sun
Clouds rain clouds rain sun sun
Rain rain rain rain stars rain
Stars rain stars rain sun rain.
(repeat daily)

Weeds grew three feet this week, and the grass, about six inches. (In the case of our rather enfeebled grass, the grass grew only three inches while the invasive weeds spread like oil slicks across the yard and plunged their roots down several feet.)

Attempting to garden on Saturday, I spent more time rushing my tools to shelter in the shed and lugging them out again than I did actually gardening. My major garden project, setting out soaker hoses in the flower beds, seemed outright bizarre, though I'm sure there'll be a use for them this year -- perhaps by August.

As the skies darkened for the second or third downpour late yesterday afternoon, I was amused to see three neighbors, who had been away on errands earlier in the day, emerge from their houses (clad insanely in shorts and t-shirts) and start their gasoline mowers. They then all mowed right through the rainstorm.

I suspect that the shaggiest lawns in the neighborhood belong to people with electric mowers who have been too cautious to risk electrocution.

Oops -- sun's out -- gotta run.