The gray returned today, with an obscure sun casting feeble shadows which paled with passing afternoon. The flowers of the sourgrass remained closed all day. Evening's chilly air is dense, and scented with impending rain. Still, the birds are chirping, getting on with the business of spring, building nests and finding mates. I weave my moods out of what nature provides, the active recipient of passive gifts. Each of these days is not like the other. I feel like grass waiting to be watered.