Damp

[rejectomorph]

A night of misty hours, the world lit by faintly luminous clouds, the masses of bare oak twigs hazy, like frozen puffs of smoke against the sky. The frogs never tire of singing their song. Other than that, silence. Every outdoor surface is damp. Toadstools sprout on the lawn and from the gravel path. The chilly air has the dank smell of winter, redolent of decaying plant life, but is also scented with growing grass. Though it is still January, there has been for days the feeling that we are on the cusp of the seasons. Only the long darkness and the slow, deferred brightening of the mornings reminds me that we are still almost two months from the equinox. I wonder how long this meteorological limbo will linger? I could almost wish for a blizzard, just to break the monotony of it.