Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, the family’s mixed Lab.
Of course, it was raining.
But not a real rain, but a pissant one just a smudge above a drizzle or spritz.
Didn’t even have the decency to do a real rain.
Just enough to hide the light.
I like the half light around dawn. But those are tinged with impending brightness from shiny yellows and reds.
Rainy fall mornings are gray blobs of light, as if something out of the candlelight of colonial days.
It not just the misery of bad light, weighing down like a too-big cloak, but the bad colors that come with the season.
You can wax poetic somewhere else about the beauty of fall colors.
I know the banality of the browns and the death tinges from the yellows.
Even the reds in ground cover limps toward more of a dull rust this year.
One squirrel leaped into hiding on the back side of the ditch on the far side of the town pond. Two more jumped around the trees back in town.
No other wildlife. No doves. No Canada geese. No rabbits.
No love from me for this time of the year as I trudge up the porch steps.