We've had rainy spells before but this takes the cake.
You have your cool damp, your warm sticky, your drip-down-the-back-of-your-neck rain shield, interspersed with a hunker down blast of thunder knocking PervBird off his swing (which stops him doing that embarrassing thing he does) and snapping me out of my moisture-induced catatonic state.
Enough, Mother Nature! Please? Purty please?
The fence posts are turning a sickly shade of green, all on the north side (I have a compass and yes, I checked), the brush along the fenceline is looking healthier than ever, though the grass, strangely enough, isn't growing. Not that I ran out and measured it with a ruler.
What I did do is trudge into my neighbor's field to investigate the strange blotches of white marching in long lines up the slope, or curving around like some vast Druidic circle, or or boldly standing at defiant attention, singlets here, there, everywhere.
The attack of the giant 'shrooms.
This display, visible from an acre or two away, has me thinking sauteed with butter and a bit of cracked pepper.