The cats are complaining loudly and with increasing frequency, due to the continued meteorological inclemency. I'm sure they are quoting Mark Twain: "Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it."</i> Their feline displeasure, lacking the outlet of bemused prose, issues forth as restlessness, demands for attention, the batting about of objects not intended for that purpose, and the occasional outburst of mutual hissing and snarling, their dislike of one another greatly aggravated by the enforced confinement. They also console themselves by periodically giving me one of those looks -- the ones that say "This is all your fault! If you really loved me, you'd fix it!" Sorry, kitties. The sky will clear eventually. In the meantime, you'll just have to take naps and dream of chasing birds in the sunshine.
I, of course, having no urgent errands abroad in the town, don't mind watching through the windows as rain falls from the gray sky and drips bright beads from the bare twigs. I indulge my taste for melancholy romanticism with the merest tinge of self-aware irony, recalling how much pleasure I have taken over the years from brooding along with the sky. How could I not be happy on so delightfully dismal a day?
I'm making spaghetti for dinner tonight, with garlic toast. Oum, oum. (Kudos to whoever catches the obscure reference.)