The Morning Unfolds

An apologetic Sun makes his return, slinking into the sky above the drought-sodden fields and plantations of Husborne Crawley. The land steams gently in the unaccustomed warmth of its unexpected proprietor. Streaks of red and orange shine on the puddles and newly-created Woburn Sea.

Those birds that have survived the deluge clear their lungs of inhaled water, shake the dampness from their wings, and lift themselves, near-waterlogged, from the damp-boughed, damp, bowed, blossom-laden trees. They attempt a liquid dawn chorus, but give up, exhausted, and fall to the ground.

In the strengthening sun's rays, the Beaker Folk, dressed in their liturgical wellies and pac--macs, look suspiciously at the strange orange disk hanging in the air as if it owns the place. A few don dark glasses, their eyes, like those of cave-dwelling fish, revolting against the shock of the unaccustomed ultra-violet.

The Archdruid suggests that the Liturgical Dance should be held on Big Meadow. Her followers point out that, if they did, they would be stuck in the mud - possibly unable to be extracted without the aid of specialist lifting equipment. Eileen points out that this is generally the idea.

Someone suggests a Pouring out of Sand ritual, to encourage some nice dry weather. It is pointed out that, contrary to appearances, we need the rain.

Eventually they agree that they can Pour out Beakers outside, since it's such a nice day. Despite the village being built on the Green-sand, the water simply sits there on the grass, unable to sink in. A haddock, rather improbably, swims into view.

Away to the West can be discerned a small gray cloud, no larger than an Archdruid's fist. In the swamp below we can see the Piper at the Gates of Dawn. He's not waving.