Fog

Grey day. Yes, spell check, I use an "e" in "grey". It's perfectly acceptable...quit trying to change me, man...

Grey, grey day. Clouds hanging low, exhaling earthward, chill, damp respirations lingering, tangling themselves in trees, leaving dewy fingerprints on shrubs, no place for wild things to hide from the damp, no place for them to get warm.

The sun is up there, somewhere, but down here is only half light, filtered through soft layers of wetness, no hope of a friendly, stray, warming ray.

The birds are crows pecking at worms on the pavement beyond the yard - not even oil-rich black sunflower seed mix can entice the smaller ones out to add a splash of color to the monochromatic day.

My head is full of mucus. You're welcome. So are my lungs. There's a chorus, a cacophony, of coughing here at Casa de Crazy.

Coughing, sniffling, cattargh, pleas skyward to please make this damned thing go away, we'd really like to breathe again, thank you.

There are things to do, but I don't feel like doing them. I should wrap Bird's Yule gifts while he's not here. I don't have much, but it will suffice...and it's much easier to wrap them when he's not just around the corner - I don't have to be stealthy or wait until ohgod-thirty to get the job done. I may even do it...in a little while...

In a little while...

For now, though, I'm a diffusion of greyness myself, trying to brighten, to warm, but feeling rather limp, damp, and out of sorts instead.

How's the weather in the Blue Nowhere?