Dreary Days (Entry 7)

 

I see that the sky is hidden behind a thick blanket of grey, and all the colors of the world are partly subdued. There is a light mist falling from the sky, and it leaves a thin layer of sheen atop anything that dares lay without cover. There are several brown puddles that try their best to reflect the dismal display given off by their immediate surroundings, and all of the life that normally scurries about has gone into hiding so they may avoid the threatening and rapidly dropping temperature.  The branches are dancing along with the rhythm of the breeze, and the trees continue to work and fight off the stillness that engulfs the rest of their environment. 

I listen as the wind cuts through the landscape, treating leaves as though they were reeds attached to some type of hushed wood-wind instrument. There is a chirping coming from the thick grass that covers my feet, halting each time that I snap a twig and dried leaf with my steps. There is a dripping noise coming from the thin stream of runoff that winds its way down a makeshift waterfall found where rocks stick out over a small ledge. On occasion a bird lets out a random tune, but for the most part, there is no voice offered by nature.

The surface of the leaves and the rocks have smoothed out as a result of the moisture that had attached itself after a period of light rainfall, and the bark on the trees is much more malleable than it had been just hours prior. The soil's texture is also linked to the precipitation, quickly giving way to any type of intrusion rather than holding firm against it. My clothing sticks to my body wherever raindrops have joined with the fabric, but it brings me no worry at all.