GREY

I grow fond of grey. Not so much the color, but the sky, as a balm to the ever-decreasing ascension of the sun. Yes, that dense cover of clouds overhead today that dilutes the increasingly feeble sun, but also diffuses it, sets it glow into every corner of the firmament. More importantly it obscures just how low the sun's – perhaps overly ambitiously termed – rise is now. The grey masques the sun's meagre height in its shroud of uniformity. One need not look sideways to find the sun on days like today; it is enough to know that it is up there, somewhere, hidden, that the sky is grey.



I know the grey of winter will be oppressive, like a blanket too heavy to kick off, but this grey is not that. Not yet. It filters out the low-looming light, hiding from me the suns impending scarcity. This grey is a comfort, a shelter. It does not foreshadow storms, great deluges of rain, torrents of wind; it simply veils the sky, or perhaps it my eyes that are veiled.

I grow fond of grey, though I know soon I will bemoan it. But today it is grey, so I dance.