I feel as though I have been living under a gray blanket this weekend. At 7:30 this morning it was almost as dark as dawn. Fog blanketed the mountain, and it has been overcast all weekend.
Overnight, finally, a little rain, less than half an inch, though at this point even a little will help. The forest isn't turning color with autumn's colors, but many leaves, especially in the smaller plants of the understory, are turning brown, falling off, and littering the driveway just as if they were fall's discards.
The woods are heavy with moisure and quiet. No wind rustles the leaves. It is as though the woods are still with anticipation. Of what? I don't know, but I whisper, as though my voice needs to be nearly as silent as the trees. I don't want to disturb the silence.