It’s been about two weeks since I’ve seen any sun. The sky has been a flat not-quite white which fades to black at night, and lightens to an evening shade of grey when it becomes day. It weighs more when a drizzle wanders in, but that is all the change there is. Fog and mist and rain are a hair’s breadth from being the same thing.
Shadows are barely perceptible, but the trees that have their leaves are a deep green, and others shedding their foliage are unrepentantly gold. The passage of the season is clearer to me right now than that of a day. The light never shifts except to evaporate at night and coagulate again in the next morning, washing the world dimly. Time is seeing a dark cloud in the great grey. That at least, has semblance of narration: a build up, a climax, a conclusion.
I’m perpetually groggy: by the time I’m half awake, it’s off to bed for the night.
I wake to stark lines, frost and so much crisp openness and solitude that to say I am grateful, doesn’t even begin to explain the expanding of my heart in this place.
The cold, like no autumn I’ve ever experienced, slices right under my skin and cuts the core of me. I dream of open roads, an unending blue canopy and shadows that cut. But a part of me doesn’t want to leave this bare, dim world that offers so much rest.
This, I am told, isn’t yet winter.