The Sunset is Gray

I walked slowly through the woods, the dreary day not providing the sort of energy I might normally have. It was still and calm, although a slight breeze sent a few red leaves floating softly to the ground. It wasn't raining, nor had it all day. It was just one of those quiet, gray days that makes you feel nostalgic all over. 

I made my way through the underbrush, a few green leaves still hung on. The taller trees were about at peak from sun and chill and wind. The colors seemed more brilliant against the bleak backdrop, but the gathering dusk soon just made them look dark and cold. 

I broke through the edge of the trees and stopped to survey the surrounding countryside from the top of the hill where there was a slight clearing. Some gray boulders dropped off about 10 feet or so into some wild grasses and moss and, of course, freshly dropped fall leaves. 

Off to the west would have normally been a flaming sunset of fiery oranges, or maybe the more subtle but equally stunning yellows, or maybe pinks, purples, and reds. Not today. There was no sunset. Yet, I caught myself in the thought. Of course, there was a sunset. Every day the sun dipped down into the western abyss; some days I couldn't see it, but it still happened. Today the overcast sky kept me from seeing the sun say goodnight, but the slow, steady clutches of night overwhelming the earth told me it was doing just that. 

I took one last look through the gloom and turned again into the darkening woods.

Today, the sunset is gray.