It's raining. It hasn't rained for a month. The birds are chatting about it. Not singing. Chatting.
It's raining hard enough for me to overhear a young woman stop in a grocery store and ask if they sell umbrellas and for two or three of the clerks to think about this for a moment and conclude they don't. It doesn't rain that often in Victoria of a density to require an umbrella.
Two things about the rain made me smile on my early morning outing: a father with his toddler son on his shoulders and the son holding an umbrella which kept them both dry: one of those lawn service trucks pulled up in front of a residence and the summer help worker diligently doing his duty, walking a gas mower back and forth across the dried, brown, inch-high grass, in the pouring rain.
It is "twenty minutes later" and the rain has stopped and the sky is more silver than grey, but it is, after all, Victoria, and I expect if I "wait (another) twenty minutes" it will be raining again. Or the sun will be out.