The Grey Would Turn to Dusk

The air was clammy, cold, like the hand of a nervous child wearing a red knit scarf. The wind was wet with the last drops of a rainstorm that had run dry of water but not of persistence. I could hear people murmuring, “I hate this weather,” “This weather is so depressing,” and the sky seemed to sigh at the flood of insults—unwarranted, it believed; after all, it was only nervous. The pavement protested the throwing of leaves and acorns—they were not being thrown, really, but anger could emphasize even the gentlest of scenes—onto its fresh coat of asphalt, for it complained to birds and squirrels alike that drenched leaves were harder to scrape off than bubblegum. And all these scattered words fell upon me in the form of silence. The people behind me had turned into a corridor and their voices had faded into nothingness. The branches trembled, trying to cover their nudity. But I was not gazing at the trees; my head tilted back to watch the sky. The clouds were so dense, pale grey and heavy yet unfathomably light; it was the first time I had seen clouds so perfectly still. I watched them intently, eyes wide, mouth agape, for I knew they were fixed only by their momentary whim, and that the grey would soon turn to an indigo dusk.