Out walking before the rain and maybe storm. I start to walk one way because the wind is from the south west—ripples on the river point the way. But then the wind dies suddenly, and the river is calm. There are two or three dolphins in the shallows of the sandbar, with not enough water to fully dive; they stream across it like sharks, and double back in strange directions at times, likely hunting fish. The whole scene is metallic and grey. I decide to turn and walk downriver now that it’s calmer. Rain starts to fall in fat, slow drops. I hear the sound of a pied oyster catcher somewhere on the river. And then the sound of a black faced cuckooshrike up ahead, all shrill and high; I spy him at the top of a tree, looking down. The rain increases. I swing back for home. The rain stays, but slow, and I’m still not that wet when I arrive. I head out again soon after with my wife when she gets home, and notice that now the wind has swung fully to the north, now blowing in gusts. Then out of the wind and rain appears our nephew, fresh and wet from the beach, smiling. We walk on, together, for a moment, but the umbrellas are no match for the sideways rain.