The dead lawns of the vacant house next door are soaked, deepening their color from yellow straw to golden brown. Another day or two of rain will return them to green, though they will be strewn with the brown leaves the oaks have shed. It is almost as cold now as it was early this morning, and the clouds are so thick that there is not even a bright spot to reveal the position of the sun. The pungent smell of rotting leaves is pervasive. It is a perfect day.
I particularly enjoy those moments when the clouds ride low, closing in on the forest. Then, wispy vapors drift among the roses, and the treetops become like wan shadows cast on gray slate. Despite the absence of direct sunlight, leaves glitter with drops of water and the wet street shines, reflecting the turbid sky. I can't remain indoors while there is such splendor to enjoy.
