One of Those Days

It was one of those slate grey mornings. The cloudy sky had no breaks, just a solid blanket of grey. The lake reflected that sending back an even deeper grey although broken by the tiny waves that rippled on the surface. Oso cast no shadow as he ran up the hill and through the woods. I cast no shadow striding up the hill on snowshoes. The pine trees gave neither shade nor opened to a clear space. All was the same. Even the snow was a pale grey rather than the crystal white it would become when the sun comes out. The green of the pines was dark, like the Painter had mixed some grey onto the palate. The world seemed flat.

As I turned around and headed back down the hill, light had appeared over the distant mountains. Not blue sky yet. Just a thinning of the clouds so that they began to appear white instead of persistent grey. The mountains below them began to have some definition. Perhaps there will be sun today after all.