Our house offers two distinct vantage points ”“ one side nestles into the woods, another opens to the garden. The two are sufficiently different that guessing the time of day from each, at the same moment, invariably leads to different results. The days appear longer on the garden side, harder to gauge in the woods. A fleeting midday thunderstorm can feign the arrival of nightfall in the woods, whereas the same scenario in the garden arrives with less drama, less chance for deception.  

This two-for-one arrangement lends itself to some odd debates. I’ve come to realize, for instance, that rain in the woods has a longer half-life than it does in fact. Simply put, there are more obstacles to surmount en route to the ground. Each branch, limb and leaf acts as a temporary way station. Rain doesn’t just fall in the woods; it tumbles in stages.

The wind, it turns out, complicates everything. Just when you think the rain has stopped, the wind kicks in to re-start the process ”“ or so it seems. What it really incites is a battle of the senses. Standing by the door to the woods, I can see and hear rain. Looking out at the garden, I see and hear no such thing.

Yet both perceptions are accurate.  

It’s no longer raining on either side ”“ period. But in the woods, gusts of wind stir up a semblance of rain, which is actually the sound and shimmy of wet leaves shedding water. This defies the quacking duck rule: If it looks like rain, sounds like rain and acts like rain, it must be rain.

Perhaps “faux rain” would be a fitting concession, allowing for both the fact and the facsimile.  

Beyond that, the wind sometimes issues a series of postscripts. Hours after a heavy rainfall, a splatter of drops might fall on the deck, seemingly apropos of nothing. It’s just the wind loosening more water from the trees. Granted, the entire pattern is familiar, with its own rhythm and sequence. Still, none of that makes the dialogue between wind and rain seem less surprising.

Then there’s one final hitch. The skylight facing our woods amplifies everything: Raindrops pound the glass, winds threaten, sounds reverberate. All but the lightest rain mimics a storm. When an actual rainstorm hits, it might as well be a performance. The skylight is a great contortionist, turning everyday weather into special effects.

— Joan Silverman is a writer in Kennebunk. This article originally appeared, in different form, in The Maine Sunday Telegram.