| Gray |
[Dec. 8th, 2004|04:45 pm]
rejectomorph
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The storm lull releases dozens of small, brown birds who flock to the wet lawns, where they peck and chirp. Fog turns the tops of pines to shadows, but does not descend. The muted green of distant fields is like an inviting summer shade, but will soon be swept by cold, returning rain. Sound is amplified under this low, cloud-crowded sky, the hum of cars on nearby roads blending with the sustained rush of wind shivering the pines. The dripping of the trees never stops, and the acorn woodpeckers fill the gray day with their chuckling. There is no trace of sun, other than the steady dimming of the evening brought on by its departure. Night does not fall, but creeps up, accompanied by a brief glimmer from the closing curtain of renewed rain. |
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