It’s a dull woollen grey sweater day Where the birds too have withdrawn their song and tucked their wings in for winters chill fingers that will reach out and capture their whistling tunes. Dropping pleasantries on the big city boulevards Hidden from prying eyes, windows shut tight like mouths with no words left.
Winter comes suddenly. With no pamphlets announcing a matinee show of ballet beauties or bronzed horsemen riding in the sultry sun on careless beachfront. That shuffle sand and people into shady nooks and under trees. Winter does the opposite.
Each evening from now winter will keep the refrigerator door open for chilled soups to warm up to toasted breads to bring a summer inside ourselves with its comfort.
Of course the weathermen will wander of course talking up storms and snowfalls, ice and wind sleet and temperature drops to keep the moods down locked and lifeless, now waiting for summer to come around.
The garden will go limp with excuses shedding its autumn floral displays and standing bare and naked before the mirror of winters reflection.
As each day passes, the mood will dampen down and slink into caves of warm pockets. We go from room to room aimlessly looking out the snowy mountains Wearing their white skull caps like chinese market gardeners waiting to harvest the last fading greenery around. Soon the snow will capture the mountain ranges and spread its feathery fishnet sheets all the way down to the valleys.
This is it. The conquest of windchill against a blazing summer Is complete. Down at the door level of temperatures it feels unique to be so isolated and lonely.
The sun does come out but it acts s subdued and lukewarm- not basking, not bright, just staying for a short while each day and leaving even before dusk comes rapidly, never overstaying the welcome. Author Notes