There had been so much rain. The window screens now woven with spider webs of drops, paths intricate and shining, a splattering made windswept, as if by design. In those first moments of sunrise, the valley pulled at the cuff of winter’s green, a sharp edge more algae than moss. And from the kitchen window, everything near—the blue stone garden path, the painted porch planks, a curving iron table—stood back from the landscape, shining, as if to watch clouds fall from mountain’s grasp, settling firm between the morning and the light.