Ulmo, it says, had not in all his music conceived the sound of rain.

What a remarkable thing for Tolkien to do, what he wrote. How unusual, unpredictable, and something none could have led him to. He could have asked nobody what to do and have heard in reply, write the Silmarillion.

Here we’ve had rain. The hovering, low clouds, the damp, the grey over fresh green. The green has a lot of yellow, before it deepens into the summer. It is new with promise and yet on these grey day it broods.

The sounds include much squeaking from the birds, like so many variously rusted hinges, and the low call of the mourning doves which alone has meaning. The mourning doves are like the brooding promise of spring lawns in grey weather. The azaleas in the shadowless dim of the day.

It is good weather for strong tea. Strong tea and the right kind of sandwiches: sandwiches made with sliced bread with some substance to it, with few but thick ingredients, with butter and nothing exotic.

I remember the rainy season in Mexico City and the sandwiches there, and the tea. And the Silmarillion too.


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