There’s going to be a thunderstorm quite soon, br The air is still, the sky is growing darker, br Clouds tower above and menacingly loom. br I’m sitting in the summer house beneath br The apple tree, late afternoon. Out there br And unaware of me are lots of birds. br They seem to lead such active busy lives: br Two swallows flutter in among and under- br neath the apple leaves to seek out flies br That congregate and shelter there, in vain; br The little perky nut-brown jenny wren br With jaunty tail is like a tiny mouse, br Now here, now there, and everywhere she goes; br On centre stage the tattered father blackbird br Who all summer long has toiled each day br His ever hungry importuning young br To feed is here attended by two portly br Daughters whose gaping bills he tries to fill; br From time to time the curious bright-eyed robin br Comes to sit upon the chimonière br From where he looks at me, the only bird br To know that I am watching from within. br br The stage begins to clear then when a peal br Of thunder says the storm is nearly here. br The pattering on the wooden roof begins br To quicken, rain falls upon the paving stones br Outside in furious floods until again br It slackens and becomes desultory. br The stage is empty now, the curtain down, br All actors gone save for the garden toad br Who slowly crawls across the dampened grass br Enjoying all this wetness everywhere, br With raindrops sliding off his wrinkled skin. br And afterwards when now the storm has passed br A cool and welcome freshness fills the air, br The curtain lifts, and one by one the cast br Returns to centre stage, the play goes on.