Another week of rain, and there is so much gardening to do. Knowing the rain was coming, I worked like a fiend on Monday, the only nice day of the week so far, and got most of my perennial beds uncovered from the brown winter leaves that blew into them last fall.

The thing about Maine, and perhaps northern New England, is this: Once it starts raining, it doesn’t have enough sense to stop. Yes, we need rain, and one rainy day is always welcome, especially this time of year. Two days are all right as well, but when the damp weather stretches on to three, four, or five days, then enough is enough. I know. I should be counting my blessings that I live in a state that has plenty of water. And mostly I do. But two weeks of rainy days, punctuated by a day or two of sun, can wear on a person.

Yesterday the rain stopped long enough—for the whole afternoon!—for the dog and I to go on a woods walk. It felt good to get out of the house, and the route I like best involves two long, steep hills. By the time I get to the top of the hills, my heart is beating fast, and I am slightly out of breath. Another bonus. Nature’s gym, as I like to say.

Even on a gray day, a woods walk is a sensory delight of sound and color. First, I was struck by the amazing bright green of the new leaves—color-crayon green, I call it—and the woods seemed lit from within. On one side of me, the Upper Narrows Pond was gray and placid yet slightly mysterious, a cool punctuation to that riot of green. All around came various sounds—the raucous, jungle bleat of the pileated woodpecker; the lonely yet lovely “where are you?” call of a loon; and the rushing sound of the streams as they bounded over rocks. I felt totally immersed in these sights and sounds. I was certainly in the moment.

Ahead and behind me, my dog, Liam, sniffed and left his mark. If I stopped too long to take pictures, he would bark at me. “Come on, let’s go.” But he was patient when I sat on a stump to just look and listen. I guess sitting, unlike standing, implies no movement.

Across from where I sat was a huge dark cavern made by the upended roots of a fallen tree. I started imagining what could be lurking beneath, an underground community of woodland sprites, with their own little busy lives and society. Or perhaps something more sinister, some kind of beast in its lair, a creature with red eyes and sharp teeth.

Time to go, I decided, and Liam concurred. We went up one of the big hills, out of the woods, and back to our snug, cluttered home. It was also time for tea—Earl Grey—and a snack—a few pretzels and an apple, bits of which I shared with Liam, who lay beside me on the couch. The orange cat was stretched out on my blanket-covered legs, and everything felt cozy and warm.

Gray days have their consolations, but I am certainly ready for a stretch of sunny days.

After a spell of very warm weather, which made everything green and hopeful, central Maine has had a stretch of gray, drizzly weather. Very discouraging for dogs and humans and disastrous for birds trying to feed their young. The flying insects lie low during chilly weather, and this means no food for baby birds. My friend Barbara Johnson often mentioned how hard this weather was on the young birds and how many of them didn’t make it if the gray drizzle continued too long.

My gardens desperately need tending, but I am reluctant to work in them when they are so damp, where I might run the risk of spreading disease. So what to do? Put on some sturdy shoes—I wish I had some wellies—and take to the woods.

Our house is surrounded by woods that are part of my town’s watershed. Those woods could never be called a deep forest, but they are lovely and green and have trails going through them. The trails edge the Upper and Lower Narrows Ponds, which, in fact, look more like lakes than ponds. The trails are far enough from the road so that my dog, Liam, can go off-leash and sniff and mark territory to his heart’s content.

Yesterday, we went on a woods walk, and even though the day was gray, there were things to see.

Everywhere there was water, and we had to cross several streams. Liam is not a water dog, and he always hesitates before getting his paws wet.

We were both happy when we came to a stream with a plank.

Into the forest we went, up a ridge that overlooked a ravine with a stream rushing through it. We tramped the woods for over an hour, and by the end, my feet were wet, and I was ready to head home for a cup of Earl Grey. But before we left the woods, there was one final treat—the ethereal song of a hermit thrush, a song I have not heard since last summer.

Spring is here, and despite the drizzle and the gray, it is most welcome.