A sullen winter sky.
A downcast of morning. We have snow on the ground, the landscape rolling away white and grey, light and shadowed. We have everything we could want except perhaps a morning sun, a bird's song, light when we rise. The greyness is not a metaphor for depression some mornings, it is the ghost of depression's body.
There is some spit of snow coming down as I walk to the car, small pellets of snow, not flakes. We can live with it. It's a new day.
Out in the country, I see that the bottle cap of sky has been popped open to the northwest - a small bank of light there, like air.
Off to the west I think I see Green Lake steaming, fog rolling away above it. We always say Green Lake creates its own weather. This is one example.
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