Newts

It rained on Sunday. It pissed down all day, consistently, without break, heavily. The streets were running with water where the drains and gutters had overflowed, and cars hissed by spraying passers-by as they drove. We felt cooped up, hemmed in, unable to get out to enjoy ourselves.

Then just before nightfall, there was a break in the clouds, blue sky broke through, and we were able to get outside for a stretch.

I wandered into the garden in bare feet, and peered into the pond, much fuller than normal after several days' downpours.

There were newts suspended in the water, motionless, spread-eagled, still. They looked like miniature dragons hanging in space, waiting for an eternity. They hung there, crystallised in the clear water, little saw-toothed backs menacing the surface above them, tiny spatulate toes pointing in all directions. Then they saw my shadow andbwriggled rapidly down beneath the weeds and out of view.




[A joke:

Have I shown you my pet newt, Tiny?

Why do you call him Tiny?

Because he's my newt! ]