Fuchsia-Flowered Gooseberry (Ribes speciosum)

Charcoal clouds hover, too high to drop their load just yet, but they darken and grow heavier with every step I take. Soon. The clouds barely move, and the air here, on the ground, is still.

There’s something about the light on an overcast day. Every leaf, twig and flower is vibrant with texture and color. Tiny gooseberry blossoms, dangling from their twiggy branches, glow bright red in this light. Tomorrow, if the sun comes out, I must pass by again to see if I can catch hummingbirds flitting about the bushes. Who knows, I might spy one or two gathering bits of fluff and fur for their tiny nests.

The golden current, cousin to the gooseberry, won’t bloom for a few more weeks, but its leaves are popping out. My mouth waters at the mere thought of wild gooseberry jam and fresh-churned butter on Janine’s black current scones. I must be hungry. Time to run back to the house and dish up the potato-kale soup I made for Cheyenne and me this morning. We’ve been housebound with flu and colds all week, though I’ve managed to steal away for a walk nearly every day.

Murgatroid The Cat, spies me coming up the path and trots out with a greeting, motor running. “Hey, Murg, how’s our patient?”

“I’m just fine, thank you.” Cheyenne pops through the porch door, but the cracks in her voice, barely audible, thanks to the virus we share, belie her tale. “We came out to watch the sky. Looks like a storm brewing.”

The first fine drops mist my cheeks.

“Soup’s hot. I made corn bread,” Cheyenne smiles, knowing her skillet-baked corn bread is one of my favorites.

“Smells scrumptious. You must be feeling better.”

Murgatroid snakes her body around my leg, then bounds across the street. What is she after this time?

Cheyenne laughs at Murg, and turns her soft smile again to me. “I am better,” she says and grabs my hand, tucking it under her arm just so. “Let’s eat.”

Image credit: Fuchsia-flowered gooseberry by jkirkhart35 / CC BY-NC 2.0